Page 33 of Inked in Bloom
Mademe human.
I alternate between sips of tea and water, continuing to paint. The dull ache of my grief remains, but I focus on each peach petal and thorny green stem. I have no clue how much time passes, by the time I’ve finished my chamomile, my eyelids flutter, heavy and swollen from tears.
Stretching my arms in front of me and setting my glasses down, I lay my head against the desk, staring at the vibrant flowers twisting around the rim of the mug. The one next to it is halfway done, but a big yawn escapes and I decide to leave it for a morning project. If my body is willing to sleep, I should let it, and the bed is…just so… far… away…
The room is bright.So bright… But I’m surrounded by comfort. Warmth.
A couple stares down at me, their faces glistening with tears…
…with love…
My cheststings.
A gasp pulls me from the dream and I jolt upright. Pressure builds beneath my ribs, pinching at my sternum. Fumbling with paint-stained hands, I undo the clasp of my bra and toss it on the ground where it’s swallowed up by air. Vanished.
Something dark streaks across my skin and it fuckinghurts.
Topless and terrified, I reach for my glasses. Deep black ink strokes curl their way over my breast, slow and stinging.
I hiss, stumbling on wobbly feet for the mirror. Line by line, some invisible needle paints my sternum, transforminginto a stem that curves over my cleavage. Another twists around it, curving under my right breast. Next comes the delicate outlines of leaves, which rise and fall as my chest heaves. They tickle slightly, and I’m grateful for the reprieve from pain but the fear remains.
Who or what is doing this?
I cup some dirt from an empty pot on the windowsill and toss it over the wooden floor. Planting my feet on the ground, I close my eyes, reaching out for my magic. I need to stop whatever this is. I wiggle my fingers. Wriggle my nose. But no magic comes.
The sting returns, and my eyes pop open as the leaves shade themselves in.
One.
Fucking.
Leaf.
At.
A.
Time.
Not so fucking delicate anymore.
It’s painful. Beautiful. Confusing.
There’s a strange bubbling of excitement beneath my ribs. No clue why because this hurts like a bitch. No one warned me there was self-tattooing magic around here. Is this how they get their flourish marks? Because if so, bringing spring is vastly overrated.
The ink moves more swiftly, as if energized, unfurling petals that kiss the curve of my left breast. I squint, struggling to depict the flower it’s creating, but it makes me dizzy. Tears streak my cheeks. Clutching my stomach, I stumble as black spots pepper my vision.
What in the fresh hell is this?
Because I’m certain that’s where Iam—Hell. Not sure what I’m currently being punished for, but whatever it is, I repent. Tears blur out my speckled vision, hot and thick. I tug off my glasses, wiping them away with the back of my hand.
Then it stops. The searing movement. The stinging pain. And eventually my tears.
I cross the room to my reflection. The pink skin is an angry shade of red, spreading from where an inky black tattoo spans my sternum. Two flowers, their tails entwined. One has dozens of delicate petals spilling from the stem, and the other is a series of semi-open bulbous shapes that curve until they hide slightly under my right breast. I cup it and lift, wanting a better look.
A handful of foxgloves are shaded in, falling from either side of their stem in beautiful symmetry.
This tattoo is a work of art. Fucking painful art, but art all the same.
