100 Word Story

“You don’t remember me, do you?” The tattooist switched out thicker needles on the gun, better for shading. Her client tried to look up, but didn’t, as she was already etching a design into his neck.

“No. Should I?” He breathed deeply, settling into the searing pain, neither hot nor cold, as each line injected ink permanently under his skin. She looked at the source art he’d provided, blackwork of a snake entwined around a skull, then shaded the gothic serif of the T in RAPIST she’d done instead. She shrugged and cleaned the blood from the tattoo.

“You will.”

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