Aa

The thought had pervaded into every last bit of his mind. He was getting it today; that was certain. All that was left was to find the right place. Matt drove from shop to shop with Kristyn staring at the window. By now, she didn’t even bother accompanying Matt. She was all too certain he’d be returning with a, “They didn’t like it,” or a, “Felt a bit too sketchy.”

You see, Matt had wanted this for a long time, now, and he wanted to make sure his accomplice was just as interested as him. He knew it was going to hurt, too, and with skin as sensitive as his, he had every right to be concerned. Friends made a habit of faintly running their fingers across his skin, as cats would their favorite scratching post. Moments later, a faint redness would appear. Suitably, this earned him the title, “The Human Etch-A-Sketch.”

“This has got to be it. I’m certain,” he says, glancing toward Kristyn in the passenger seat.

“Oh, so you’re going to stop being so picky?” she asks, poking her tongue out in jest.

The shop’s sign was simple enough. Iron Works Tattoos. Above, an outline of an anvil. However, what really drew Matt in was the artist sitting behind the counter, patiently waiting. Above his head was a taped-up fortune cookie, reading the words, “All rough times are behind you.” It seemed oddly reassuring for Matt.

Only moments after meeting the man, Nick Filth, he was convinced. He enjoyed his idea just as much as Matt did. Besides, he was no brute of a man. He’d have to be more gentle than the other heavy-handed men.

Cut to twenty minutes later, when needle contacted skin.

Matt forced himself into a stoic pose. His knuckles turned white. The pain was already shooting throughout his body, forcing him to put on his best poker face. He couldn’t let it show, not in front of his girlfriend. Not in front of his mother. Yeah, his mother stopped in to see the show, dropping everything when she heard he was finally getting himself marked.

His mother, oblivious of the answer which her all grown-up son would give, kindly asked the question, “What does it feel like…?” To which the son replied in short, staccatto’d burts, “Ah! It hurts like a motherfucker!” It was the first time he swore in front of his mother. Hey eyed lit up, yet only a near-silent breath left her lips. Luckily for Matt, she learned quickly not to disturb him while the kind man with the needle is staining his flesh.

The inking didn’t take nearly as long as Matt suspected, and already the decal looked amazing. He had two letters printed on the lower half of his forearm, “Aa,” in what appeared to be the most accurate, precise handwriting of a learned school child. He told his mother it was a commitment to his writing, and he loved the symbolism of students endlessly practicing to get their handwriting just right. He’d tell his friends it’s there for reference, just in case he forgets the first letter of the alphabet (they wonder if he’ll have room for B through Z).

With his arm in bandages, packed away like freshly ground and pulverized meat, he took the card of Mr. Filth. The card was designed to look intentionally worn, like the machine-rent holes in the knees of the popular kids’ jeans. The side facing Matthew was simple enough. “SICK TATTOOS FROM NICK FILTH.” The other featured the sultry sketch of a tousle-haired woman, eyes heavily shadowed and drawn mid-blink. Etched into her right shoulder was a skull resting on a bed of roses, covering the entirety of the area, like a modern pauldron, protecting her from the judging eyes of bar-goers and hipsters.

On their way out, Kristyn smirked inwardly.

“So, you basically just willingly had man to torture you for an hour, huh?”

Matt glanced down at his wounded arm, deciding to take the passenger seat for the time being.

“Suppose so. Even paid him, too.”

But he’d do it again. Well, at least he thinks he would, leaving the shop… Just, maybe not with Mr. Heavy Hand. That shit still hurts.