Page 54 of Painless
"Whenever you are."
I took a deep breath and laid my gloved palm flat on her skin, much like she did to methatnight, and began to work.
Several minutes passed with the buzzing of my machine as the only sound. Mariposa sat like a rock, even when I added shading directly over her spine. She really was an easier client than most men I worked on.
"Can I ask a question?" She glanced back at me, her head resting on her arms.
I lifted my foot from the pedal, making the buzzing stop. A sharp claw of anxiety gripped my chest. "Um, sure."
"For a tattoo artist, you don't have many tattoos. Any reason for that?"
I released the breath in my chest and put my foot back on the pedal. An innocuous enough question, but one I’d still have to answer carefully. "My skin doesn't hold ink well because of all the scar tissue. Lines get blurry faster, and it just doesn't look good. Otherwise, I'd probably be covered."
"The Demon you have doesn't look blurry. Did you do it yourself?"
I paused, lifting my foot again. She only saw my chest tattoo because of what we did. Or rather, whatIdid toher. I didn't even know anymore if it was a mutual act or not. All I knew was that it couldn't be repeated. Talking about it seemed to be off the table too, so why go there?
She's just making conversation about tattoos. Don't be a dumb fuck.
"I did, using a mirror and drawing it backwards. I don't have a lot of scars in that spot, so it turned out okay."
She didn't need to know my lack of scars there was because of the proximity to my heart. A blood sacrifice wasn't any good if it stopped spilling blood. They didn't cut me on the neck for the same reason.
Another few minutes of silence passed between us. As I worked, I felt the tension settling into her body, the subtle shifts and the urge to fidget.
"Do you want to take a break?" I asked her.
"I'm okay." She watched me again over her shoulder as I reached to dip more ink, her eyes following the length of my arm.
"You want to ask me about them, don't you?" Again, the words came out of me without thought. That seemed to be happening a lot today. Usually, I struggled to get words out.
"Doyouwant to talk about them?"
I looked at the crude handiwork decorating my forearm. Years upon years of scars weaved a pattern of distorted flesh. I wavered between disgruntled acceptance of my scars, and seething disgust. It wasn't really about my appearance, though. Most people had some amount of scars. What I hated the most was never getting the chance to be normal. The scars were a constant reminder of how I was shaped and molded into the socially-stunted freak I was now. I didn't know how to be anything else. I never got the opportunity.
"No, not particularly." I resumed shading Mariposa's tattoo, trying to filter out everything else but the artwork.
"Then I won't ask."
That too, made me pause. I could tell she was curious, and appreciated that she didn't push. The only conflicts I ever had with newer club members were with those who got too fucking nosy about me. I knocked Big G on his ass once years ago, after multiple warnings to stop getting in my face. No one asked nosy questions about my past or my scars again after that.
We continued on with little words between us, mainly me checking in on her pain level and her assuring me she was fine.
"How did you get into tattooing?" she asked at one point.
I took an extended pause to refill ink. The questions she asked were so simple, so entry-level to normal people. But I felt the need to answer in a particular way in order to keep...whatever this was between us. Talking to her gave me a sense of ease and comfort that I didn't want to end. Socializing was not my strong suit, but even I knew certain subjects were off-limits for casual conversation.
"I was, um, not formally educated," I began, returning my hands to her back. "I didn't learn how to read and write until a later age than most. So drawing pictures was how I expressed myself, how I communicated."
"That's really cool, actually."
A small surge of pride welled up in me, before quickly deflating. Of course she would think that. She didn’t know any better.
"I started drawing with a stick in the dirt," I went on. "When I had access to pen and paper, I used that. I learned about tattooing in prison from another inmate. He showed me the stick-and-poke method, which was all we had. After Jandro and I left, he rigged up my first machine for me."
My voice sounded strange coming out of my own head. When was the last time I talked so fucking much? Probably never. But the words poured out of my mouth like a waterfall, and the smile over her shoulder grew wider as she listened. I started to feel like I'd tell her whatever she wanted to keep that smile going. Even the sordid details of my past I never told anyone before, if she wanted to know that.
"That's really amazing, Shadow. Did you design the Steel Demon logo too?"
