Be Very Afraid : “Tattoo”

Daylight slowly filtered into the room, inching across her face on the pillow. She started coming to. Eyes crusty. Head pounding. Mouth dry.

Slowly she tried to focus her thoughts on last night. Girlfriends . . . good time . . . laughing . . . drinking. . . . Then she remembered.

The tattoo.

She groaned.

She sat up slowly and swung her legs over the side of the bed. Rubbing her eyes, she looked down. There it was. A small white skull, a red rose in its teeth, and a ribbon of ivy encircled her formerly pristine ankle.

She closed her eyes.

Now why in the HELL did I do that. I can’t believe I did that. Why do I let them talk me into these things? This always happens. I broke my own rule--never sleep with anyone or make any decisions when drunk. Definitely one of those “Mama told me not to come” parties.

Rubbing the bridge of her nose, she got up and slowly padded down the hall to the bathroom. She turned on the shower. For several minutes she stood under the hot, stinging spray. Then she turned it off and got out. She put in some eye drops, grabbed a towel and bent over to wrap her wet hair.

Catching sight of her ankle, she stopped short.

Jeez, that thing’s bigger than I thought.

The skull looked to be about the size of a silver dollar, the rose was bigger and there were actually several strands of ivy spiraling up her ankle.

I must’ve been nuts. Tattoos aren’t even cool anymore.

She wrapped her hair in the towel, pulled on a short terry robe and padded out into the kitchen. She made a pot of coffee, poured a large cup, took it to the counter and swallowed a couple of Excedrin, hoping the caffeine would help her wake up.

After a few minutes, she made her way across the living room. She opened the front door, deeply inhaled the fresh air, bent over to pick up the paper--and gasped.

Large, deep green leaves of ivy and tangly vines had inked their way up her thigh. She stared, dumbfounded.

What in the hell is this?

Her chest started to pound.

Dear God, what in hell is going on here?

She blinked hard, twice, staring at the activity on her leg. Make that legs. New leaves were unfurling on both of them. Vines seemed to be snaking up her torso. She even thought she could hear a faint rustling.

And the skull. Her hand rose to cover her mouth when she saw it. It had become larger, chalkier and now rested on her hip. The eye sockets were black and lifeless, but the mouth! The mouth looked like it was . . . alive! Smirking. A large red rose was still grasped in its rotted teeth.

She began to scream, shaking her head in disbelief.

She recoiled in horror toward the door, still screaming, still mesmerized by the tangle overtaking her legs and arms. Tendrils of green curled upward toward her neck. The skull glided across her stomach.

Feeling for the doorway, she turned and stumbled blindly into the house, into her room. Stumbling, screaming, clawing at her throat, she crashed wildly onto the bed. . . .

When her girlfriends came looking for her, they didn’t know what to make of it all. They still don’t. For what they found on the bed was their friend (at least they think it’s her), all flesh inked completely green with vines and leaves. Save for her face. Covering her face, like a mask, was a white skull. In her teeth was a rose.

Silently, they stared.

First, at their friend.

Then at each other.

Then at the new tattoo each had just received.