Inked [one-shot/drabble]
Inked [one-shot/drabble]
"INKED"
by: luckyritzchick
The following is a work of fiction. The events and characters are fictional and the celebrity names/images merely borrowed
and do not represent who the celebrity is in real life. No offence is intended towards them, their families or friends.
He's always asked yet he never speaks of it.
Why does he like getting tattoos?
Only his mind screams the answer.
He likes pain.
It makes him feel alive.
It makes him forget.
Just like today.
He watches the needle dig in his forearm slowly, putting splashes of color on his skin.
Angry red and tainted black : they swirl and fade and darken.
His eyes water; he grits his teeth; his other hand digs into the seat.
The tattoo artist asks him if he’s alright. He nods.
It’s nothing, he says. It’s just been a while. He’s been through this before.
The black letters just a few inches above the one he’s having done now is his evidence.
He tries to look at the words indifferently yet they still mock him.
Vita Dolce. The Sweet Life.
Is it really?
He supposes it is.
It’s been grand.
There’s , money, fame, friendship and love.
It’s everything he wants and more.
There lies his happiness.
Or maybe it's not.
It's been hell.
There’s hypocrisy, judgment, gossip and hate.
It’s everything he disowns and more.
There lies his sorrow.
In between the two extremes lies the numbness - the one that comes with days that pass by like a train going through its tracks. On days like those, he does not care about anything and anyone. In those moments, he doesn't give a if the world stops, stares and talks of what he’s become.
He watches the design on his arm come to life.
It looks like a graffiti – a red heart with hands and feet all encased in a black box. It looks juvenile and inelegant: a stark contrast to the simple ones he already has etched across his back and on his forearms. He remembers the tattoo artist asking him twice if he's certain. He might change his mind. But he assures the artist he wants it. He knows exactly what he’s doing.
He glances at his other shoulder which still aches from the recent one he had made. The tattoo he has near it is colourful. It looks like something that comes from a child’s fantasy world. In gleaming orange and red, an 8 starred dragon ball permanently caresses his skin.
He's satisfied with the tattoos he’s chosen.
In another’s mind they are ugly: signs of a disjointed and disturbed mind.
They are passing fancies: the delights of the immature and the impulsive.
In his own mind, they are beautiful: a representation of a childhood with innocence and unconditional love.
They are mirrors of his youth: the one that he wishes to have and the one that he actually has.
They are forever - a permanent reminder of the life he’s agreed to forgo and the one he chooses to live.
The artist finishes the final touches to his new tattoo and asks permission if the two of them can take a photo. They take a snapshot and adds to the artist’s collection of human canvasses.
He unrolls the blue sleeves of the shirt he wore. The gesture does not cover the tattoo because the sleeve of the shirt barely reaches the tip of its design. It's an unnecessary move because he chooses not to hide the beautiful atrocity anyway
He leaves the artist’s studio. His arm is throbbing. He closes his eyes.
He fears pain.
It makes him feel weak.
It makes him stumble.
But it does not make him surrender.
For now, he'll heal the arms he had just gotten inked.
This is the kind of pain he will embrace.
It's the only one that leaves no real scar.
Tomorrow, Kwon Jiyong will face all the things that matter.
© luckyritzchick 2011.All rights reserved.
Distribution of any kind is prohibited without the written consent of luckyritzchick.
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