Page 41 of The Tattoo Artist

“Wait, does he eat chalk?”

They all stare, bemused. I let out a soft laugh, biting into the spoon filled with pomegranate. Chinese takeout flowed across the living room table.

“Just, cause, I don’t want her to go through what I went through with Carl- oh!”

“Okay, everybody relax. This is not even a date. It’s just two people going out to dinner and- not having sex.”

My heart pounds loudly in my chest as the crashing noise startles me from the comfort of the living room. I pause the TV show, my fingers trembling slightly as I try to figure out what the sound was, and where it came from. Fear grips me, and I instinctively seek something to defend myself with.

In my haste, I grab a kitchen knife, my hands clutching it tightly for a sense of security. I slowly ascend the stairs, my body tensed, and my mind racing with possibilities of what awaits me. Every creak of the stairs feels like a thundering echo in the silent house, making me feel more vulnerable.

I reach the top of the staircase, the hallway stretching ahead of me, and my parents’ bedroom is the first one I check. It appears untouched, offering some relief to my escalating anxiety.

The sound definitely came from my room.

I take a deep breath, gathering my courage, and cautiously approach my bedroom. My heart leaps into my throat as I push the door open, preparing for the worst.

And there he was.

Diávolos....

He is laying on my bed, with blood pouring out from somewhere-his hands completely soaked in his blood as he looks me right in the eyes. “Diávolos?” I whisper his name, looking around the room to see my balcony doors open.

A handprint on the walls and my desk, my snow globe on the ground crashed into pieces along with papers. I rush to his side, “what? What do I do?” I whisper.

Diávolos looks up at me, his expression unreadable, but there’s a hint of vulnerability in his eyes. The sight of him in this state makes me realise that there’s more to him than meets the eye.

My mind is flooded with questions.

“Alcohol, a first aid kit.” He mumbles under his breath; I nod my head and rush downstairs. I enter the kitchen and pull open my dad’s cupboard before slipping out the bottle of vodka. I then turn and crouch down to the cupboard under the sink, sliding out the first aid kit.

Rushing upstairs, I shut the door behind me and make my way to him.

“Disinfect your hand.” He speaks, lowly-I could barely hear what he’s saying.

I grab the bottle of vodka and unscrew the lid before pouring it onto my hand. He slowly raises his black hoodie revealing a long knife wound on his lower right abdomen. He takes the bottle from my hand and closes his eyes before pouring it onto the wound, I flinch myself knowing how painful that must be.

“Stitch it,” he says, his voice barely audible. I hesitate, feeling overwhelmed and unsure of what to do.

“I can’t-let me take you to the hospital.”

“Stitch it now.” He orders me.

So, I open the first aid kit, grab a needle and thread, and attempt to stitch the wound. The whole situation feels surreal and terrifying.

I’ve never done anything like this before, and I can’t shake the fear of making things worse. My hands tremble as I try to follow his instructions, trying my best to stitch the wound together as gently and carefully as possible. Diávolos winces in pain, but he remains surprisingly calm and composed throughout the ordeal.

The whole experience is unsettling, and I can’t help but feel a mixture of fear and sympathy for him. I can’t fully comprehend why he’s here, wounded and seeking help from me of all people. The scent of alcohol fills the air, mixed with the metallic smell of blood, creating an atmosphere that only heightens my unease.

As I continue stitching, I can’t shake the feeling that this is something I shouldn’t be involved in. I’m just an ordinary girl, not equipped to deal with dangerous situations like this. But here I am, in the midst of a harrowing moment, assisting a man who seems to be entangled in something far beyond my understanding.

When I finally finish stitching the wound, I step back, my heart still pounding in my chest.

Diávolos closes his eyes briefly, taking a deep breath, and then looks at me with a glimmer of gratitude in his eyes.

My hands were bloody, I open the kit and take out the patch big enough before plastering it over the wound. He grabs the nearly finished bottle of vodka and lifts his mask before drinking it all.

He doesn’t look at me before trying to stand, he suddenly stumbled, and I rush to him offering to help but he pushes my hand away.

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