Page 3 of The Tattoo Artist

However, this time, my obsession rested upon Diávolos.

And it was a bad obsession.

One that should be stopped.

My mother would tell me stories about him, how he preys on the innocence of girls- ruins them. However, I saw her warnings for what they were—mere attempts to keep me sheltered at home, stopping me from going out into the world. But now, at the age of twenty- I sat by the window, engrossed in my artwork.

Painting has always been a personal experience for me, so I preferred to sketch half-naked, wearing only my favourite bra, underwear, and wired headphones. Some may find it weird, but it helps me focus and tap into my creative flow. Plus, there’s something about being partially exposed that enhances my connection to the canvas.

I continued sketching the outside of my window, using dark colours to portray the alleyway. I tie my hair back into a bun, not wanting to ruin it with paint. Lost in my art, I place the paintbrush behind my ear, allowing the paint to trickle into my hair. Opening a fresh can, a few droplets splattered across my chest. Fortunately, being half-naked meant I didn’t have to worry about spoiling any clothing.

With a soft sigh, I push my dark hair behind my ears and turn my gaze back to the alleyway.

And then, it happened—my heart skips a beat.

There he is, those unmistakable green eyes staring directly through my window, piercing through me like daggers.

He returned.

A sight I never thought I would witness.

He watches me with a predatory gaze, that he most likely used to fixate on those he held captive, their pleas for mercy falling on deaf ears. In that moment, I felt more vulnerable than ever before. It had been two long years of anticipation, hoping for his return, and now he stood before me on the very day I chose to draw him on canvas.

Seizing the opportunity, I swiftly grab a pencil, the canvas, and began sketching him.

And still, he remains there, motionless, observing my every stroke.

I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the canvas, capturing his essence in graphite lines, and then back to him, studying the man who had haunted my thoughts for so long. As he stood there, his eyes secure on me, a chilling sensation gripped my heart. Slowly, he reaches up, his hands encircling his own neck as he delicately slid off a gold necklace adorned with a butterfly pendant.

An intrigued expression formed on my face as I observe his every movement, what is he trying to show me? Why is he showing me this? I turn my attention back to the canvas, grabbing a thinner paintbrush to recreate the necklace’s intricate details.

But when I look up again, he is gone.

Vanished into thin air.

And only half of the butterfly pendent is drawn on my canvas.

I rose from the seat, pushing the window open and leaning out, scanning the silent roads below. Only a blanket of untouched snow, devoid of any trace of his presence. Not a single footprint marked the pristine white landscape. Confused, I slide the window closed and take a small step back. My mind racing with questions: was it a mere figment of my imagination? There was no evidence that he was there? Maybe I was just going crazy.

No, he was there, I know he was there. I saw him with my own eyes and even began sketching him, I have to stop doubting myself. My fingers rush through my hair, maybe I didn’t see him, maybe I’m just hallucinating. I take a couple of steps back, until my body collides into something strong.

I don’t move.

That isn’t my wall.

He’s behind me.

I just know he’s behind me.

I close my eyes feeling his finger dragging up my arm, goosebumps begin to form after his trail, and the hairs on my body begin to shoot up. His touch shifts, his finger trailing across my shoulder before wrapping around my neck with a possessive grip. My breath catches in my throat as he tilts my head back, exposing the vulnerable curve of my neck.

Nothing left my mouth. Not a single word.

I glance up, and there he towers over me. A mask covering his face as his finger brush across my jaw, reaching my lips. He hooks his thumb beneath my bottom lip, pulling it down with a firm yet tender grip. My heart races as he exposes my teeth, his gaze intense and unwavering.

Then he lets go.

“Diávolos,” a hushed whisper escapes my lips. “What do you want?”

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