Page 4 of The Tattoo Artist

Diávolos reaches out and delicately removes the paintbrush from behind my ears. His actions are surprisingly gentle for what I expected from him, I’ll be honest I thought he wanted to kill me. But clearly not.

He then grazes the paintbrush just below my throat, Diávolos begins to use me as his canvas, his intent made clear as he swiftly stabs the actual canvas nearby. In a matter of seconds, he tears it apart, ripping it in half with ease that leaves me flinching in fear. He tucks the paintbrush behind my ears, and steps back. I turn around, now facing him properly. His physique exudes strength and power, evident in the solid build concealed beneath his snug sweatshirt. The outline of his well-defined biceps hints at the muscularity that lies beneath.

He analyses me, memorising every detail of my face.

I did not dare to move, nor did I dare to look away. I mean, who would when they had a complete stranger in their room? He walks around as if he’s been here before, standing in front of desk.

He raises one of the frames of Catherine and I, “I’m not afraid of you.” I speak. “You don’t scare me.”

I fold my arms across my chest, taking a step closer-wanting to see what on earth he is doing.

He turns.

And then, in a subtle shift of energy, I sense a smirk forming beneath the surface. His eyes narrow ever so slightly, a silent acknowledgment of my defiance.

He smoothly slips out of my balcony doors, disappearing into the night. I dare not turn to witness his departure. Startled by the realisation that Diávolos had managed to enter my room unnoticed, I instinctively turn my head towards the open balcony door.

The wind blowing the white curtains inside the room.

A surge of adrenaline rushes through me as I hurriedly rush towards it, locking it securely in an attempt to create a barrier between us. If I’m not afraid, why did I lock the doors? No, it isn’t fear, its something else. I just don’t know what that something is.

I turn my attention to the long mirror situated beside the door.

As I face my reflection, I realise that he has marked me.

He marked me.

He marked my body.

An X sat in the middle of my neck, my fingers grazing the wet paint as it smudged into the creases of my fingerprint.

I slowly look back to the window, then back to the mirror in shock. Does that mean I’m next? Does this mean he’s going to kill me? Is it because I noticed him, I studied him?

Or maybe…he felt as if I threatened him.

“Alexandra! Food is ready. Come down and set the table.” I hear my mother’s voice echo through the house.

Sighing, I reluctantly tore my gaze away from the sheet of paper. Slipping on a pair of comfortable joggers and a shirt, I made my way downstairs.

Growing up in a strict Catholic household, my life was a stark contrast to that of my friends and by friends – I meant Catherine. While she embraces new experiences and freedom, I am confined to the narrow path of obedience and study. My parents’ strictness knew no bounds. They feared anything that deviated from their idea of a virtuous life. Piercings, alcohol, parties—those were the activities of so-called ‘rascals’ that were absolutely unacceptable.

And then, there were tattoos.

The mere thought of permanently marking one’s skin was an abomination to them, a stain on our family’s reputation within the Catholic community. I descended the stairs and opened the cupboards, preparing to set the table. As I reached for the plates, a sudden gust of wind brushes against my arms. Startled, I turn to see my mother rushing past me, “Alexandra, close the doors after yourself!” The frigid air brought in by the breeze carried with it a trail of snow footprints, leading to the end of the stairwell. “Get a mop and clean it up.”

That’s how he got in? Through the back door?

But how did he come in unnoticed?

I retrieve a mop from the cupboard and began to clean up the snow tracks. As I wipe away the evidence of an intruder, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of unease, as if there was more to him than met the eye. Why did he disappear for two years? And why did he come back? It felt as if he wanted to torment me, to make me feel crazy. I’ll give it to him, it’s working.

Once the mess is tidied, I made my way to the dining table. My father’s eyes fell upon me, noticing the paint smudged across my face. He reached out, attempting to wipe it away.

“Got a lot of paint on your face, Alex.” My father chuckles. “And your neck.”

“Yeah, I was doing some work, didn’t really have time to clean up.” I reply, rubbing my face to remove the stubborn paint.

My mother glances at me, “I still don’t understand why you took art as your main subject.” She whispers as she settles down the food onto the table.

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