The loud, blaring horns startled my sleep. Someone had been found again. I stayed still, silent; not even letting the wisps of air leave my dry lips; which would become visible in the dark, cold night. I waited until the faint light from the window had disappeared for at least fifteen minutes before lifting my head and glancing round the room. Mother was asleep; light snores being the only sound which filled the silence. Father must be out looking for food in hiding; night was the closest to safety we could get; even if we were still risking our life- at least it was dark so it was harder to see us. 

My arms burned; a sensation I constantly felt when lacking the presence of a parent. I stared down at my bare arms; aching to see at least a glance of a tattoo there. There was nothing, and I need to accept the fact that there never will be. My eyes pierced towards mother again, her arm slightly visible, the thorns from a rose barely peeking from under the bed covers- a tattoo which only matched the one amongst my father’s ribcage. 

‘They did that for me’ I thought, eyes casting towards the window where my father had probably escaped from an hour before. ‘They got their tattoos so I could stay alive.’ My thoughts wondered to the danger they were putting themselves through and how they were risking their life so that I could live a normal life; well what a normal as I could make of this situation. My eye welled up with the thought- oh how grateful I was to have them both. 

The faint sound of a click beckoned from the door and I realised my father was home. Laying down in an instant, I pretended to be in slumber, not wanting him to be aware of my awaken state. Knowing I        worried and skipped on sleep, just to hear that he was still alive, made the guilt inside him grow and I knew that I’d rather pretend I was asleep than see the glint of guilt which fell on his face. You had to be quick to notice it, the emotion went as quick as it came, but it was so strongly evident; I never missed it. 

Now it was my turn to wait. Like my father, I waited to hear the pair of soft snores coming from the       opposite side of the room before I made my escape. The same routine, wait for them to sleep, then go in search of the tattooist. However, this time was different. I’d managed to get a hold of their address whilst quietly listening into my father’s phone conversation with another hider, whilst they discussed about the tattooist in question who had obviously, by the sounds of it, known the person who had tattooed my    parents. I thought on the idea of meeting someone who knew the person which had predicted my future by putting ink amongst my parent’s skin, wondering if this person knew of any secrets which I wasn’t to know yet. Maybe they would feel sorry for my loss of identity and ink myself, just like how I wanted them to. 

So that was my plan. As I set out of the door, making sure to leave on the hatch so that the door wouldn’t bang, I walked to the hide away set on the opposite side of town. I’d made sure to leave a note, knowing this could take up to a couple of days to ensure I came back in one piece, or even come back at all. With eligible handwriting– something my mother had taught me in home-schooling so that I could write to her once I’d left home– I kept the note short but sweet. Looking left and right, I pulled up the hood of my black sweater and set off on my journey. 

No longer than two hours, crawling behind bin and staying in the shadows of cold streets, I’d found      myself finally on the opposite side of town. Unlike where we hid, the streets weren’t busy– well not like they would be anyway at three in the morning– but the atmosphere itself felt more tense and I almost felt claustrophobic from the heavy silence on the street. Noticing the name of the street ‘Hide Street’ I chuckled to myself, remember the thoughts that crossed my mind when the name was spluttered from my father’s lips. ‘How bizarre’ I’d thought, the tattooist in hiding living on ‘Hide Street’ I had laughed to myself then, just like I had now, the thought still amused me. Remembering the description my father hadrepeated on the phone, I went in search of a towering door which looked like it had come out of a      nineteenth century film it was that old. Not even needing a second, I’d spotted it from the bottom of the street. Matte black, almost burnt looking, it stood directly in the centre of the houses– obviously their idea of a hide-away was to try and blend in with the rest of the world, and it would’ve worked, only it was amongst a row of mint and beige glossed doors, standing out immensely to anyone who walked by. Consoling myself, I thought of ways I’d have to explain myself, to ensure they knew I was telling the truth. This was going to be hard, no doubt about it, as to them I could be anybody. 

Once reaching the door mat, which didn’t help my nerves one bit as I read the words ‘We don’t want you here’- oh how charming of them, defiantly not a lover of guests. I took another look over at the door. The ragged door looked as though it had not been touched in centuries. Pushing slightly, I took notice that the door wasn’t locked and that there was another door leading to a packed room, open. My breathing stilled; listening for any source of life which could fore hold the longing ache scratching at my wrist. I    listened at the doorway, frozen in place when hearing a low hum which sounded so distant in              comparison to the compact room. 

Once awakening myself from my frozen state, I’d quietly shuffled further into what must have been a small hallway and peered closer to the open door. I could make out a pair of broad shoulders, hidden   beneath a matte black jumper– very much the same colour as the door– followed by a pair of long, slender legs wrapped within jean fabric which although looked worn, hugged his legs in just the right places, making them illuminate in the light. Tousled, jet black hair finished the look; exhilarating the fact that it had been pulled with frustration too many times to count but still looked, somehow, perfect. 

His back faced me; and my skin crawled with dread as I knew my next actions could lead one of two ways. I coughed, making the man jump but then still as though he was a deer in a headlight. Without a second thought he had swung round, glaring eyes dared me to come closer. His dead and lifeless eyes held anger, passion and fright; and the intense feeling of them on my own made my voice hitch and a sickening feeling turn my stomach. The man was beautiful. Stunning, sharp features littered his face but some scars were visible– almost overpowered by the angelic features– but they were there and it made me wonder how bad were the implicit ones. He coughed– well more like lowly grunted– catching my attention; realisation that he’d caught me staring, making the tips if my ears flush pink. 

“Why are you here?” His voice was almost mocking; however, I could slightly hear the defence in his words from not knowing who I was. He was wanted by the government after all, you never knew who was working for them.

“I want a tattoo.” I bluntly told him, not bothering to beat around the bush, as I was well aware that I too was running from the government. A deep, bitter chuckle erupted from his throat as he took one glance my way before walking in the opposite direction. 

“Very funny princess, nice joke, now be honest. Who are you working for?” 

The anger started bubbling inside of me and I tried to conceal the splutter of curses I wanted to throw at this annoyingly attractive man. 

“For your information, I’m not working for anyone, rather I’m running away from them.” One glance which he threw at me over my shoulder told me everything. He didn’t believe me. Knowing he wouldn’t hear me out, the only thing I could think to do was prove myself. Striding across the room, I reached for his arm pulling him to a halt. He turned around, fire threatening to burst from his ears, almost like a storm cloud had formed above his head. Without speaking a word, I turned around and showed him the back of my bare neck, vacant of the      keyhole used to shut everyone down on their twenty fifth birthday. Slowly, I peered round at his gaping mouth, not knowing how to react. 

“I thought I was the only one.” He lowly whispered, mostly to himself.  To prove a point further, he then turned to show his own bare neck matching my own. 

I chuckled, finally having known that he understood how I felt, and by the change in his eyes– which held both curiosity and acknowledgment– I was ready for the flood of questions. Instead he read me like an open book,

“Let me guess, both parents got a tattoo and the ache in your body is so unbearable you needed to get one to?”

“How did you know?” he gazed at his sleeve covered arm, burning holes through fabric.

“I’ve felt that before.”

A long silence echoed throughout the room, and curiosity was eating e up as I stared at the beautiful man who looked almost torn and broken in front of me, probably wishing I hadn’t made myself present, but yet again I thought I saw a flash of inquisitiveness cross his features. But I could be wrong, it was hard to read his expression. 

“So what do you want?” the question caught me off guard as it boomed throughout the box-shaped room. It was my turn to gape at him- shocked that he was willing to help me- as he glided over to a table in the far-left corner, lit by a single lampshade, already drawing away at what must be an unfished sketch.

“Hurry, I don’t have all day you know!” The gruff voice cut me out of my stance– once again– somehow managing to lure my body to sit in front of him. Without answering his previous question, I pulled a crumbled piece of paper from my back pocket; displaying the unique traces of the tattoo I’d drawn for myself. Thin, spindly stalks grew long and wrapped delicately round the rough sketch of an arm. Thorns        threatened each side of the spines as a pair of plush roses bloomed the surfaces, deep red contrasting with the black, monotone stalks. Both roses matched the ones amongst my parents skin, one matching my father’s, the other matching my mother’s. I bit my lip, nervous as my brain wracked what emotions the boy in front of me was feeling as his eyes almost seemed to soften for a split second before returning tot heirusual dull but curious look. 

No words were uttered, as he began to rid of the jumper enveloping his body, leaving him in a matching, fitted shirt-which appreciatively like his jeans– clung to his well sculpted body. However, my attention went straight to the many tattoos which etched both his arms, one catching my attention more than the rest. A long, haunting stalk wound round his tanned arms, starting from the tip of his index finger, tracing swirls and loops round and up the base of his arms, getting lost within the sleeve of his shirt. Roses littered upon the daring swirls, very much like my own, however his were pure black. The knowing look he gave me didn’t justify the sickening feeling in my stomach. He had a lot of questions coming his way, that was for sure.