The first tattoo had been a rebellion, but a secret one. Under cloak and dagger, she’d fle
The first tattoo had been a rebellion, but a secret one. Under cloak and dagger, she’d fled to the tattoo parlour the day after her mother had forbidden to adorn her body so. And, like red to a bull, it had pushed her over the edge of a decision she had been teetering over for months. It had quickly snowballed from there, although they stayed well within easily covered zones until she passed eighteen and could get clear of the house, find herself in a little studio apartment with no one to barely cover the disgust on their face when they saw you had the temerity to ink yourself. She never forgot the feeling of that first mark on her, though. It was a rush, there was no doubt in that, but underneath that there was the feeling of an assertive power, that she was reclaiming her body, finally exhibiting her control over it. Each symbol and pattern after that was just another part of herself that she was exerting dominance over. She was layering herself in an armour of art, safe in her symbols. There wasn’t much skin left untouched when he decided he would cover the next piece. Of all the things he had made her do, had her do of her own volition, when he had brought up the suggestion that he mark her, something that she had no input over, she had baulked, visibly recoiled from the idea. That was her’s, the pieces of her she’d kept back from him, the parts that were safe. But he had kept at it, managing to tread an impressive line between frustrating her and letting the idea slip away. It persisted, and he persisted with it, trying to see where she was in thinking about it. And the more he talked about it, the more she realised that this was something that she had to do, if she was to be truly his. She had taken control over so much of herself, she had to relent, to accept that she was to be his in more than name. He spent a month being taught by her artist, how to use the pen, how to avoid infection, how to create something beautiful. And then, on the last piece of herself that she hadn’t claimed for her own, he made his mark. -- source link
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