Tattoo

Photo by Clem Onojeghuo on Unsplash

I can't remember a time when I had the perfect skin. I may still have been a baby when it last happened, but even then my pudgy baby skin has already been marred by a birthmark that runs down the length of my right arm. I recall my elders telling me out of superstition that a birthmark marks how we died in our past lives, but I have never been the sort to believe in superstition. The thought of me dying by having my arm severed or burned in a past life sounds cool, but it is not something I buy into. It is a lovely thought, I admit.

I see my reflection in the mirror and see my bare skin with hatred. It's changed during my adolescence, and now that my body's outgrown that stage, my face bears the scars of every teenager's worst facial nightmare. My arms show no marks from that stage, but they seem different to me. I guess looking at them now for this long is strangely mesmerizing, like I'm looking at something that doesn't belong to me despite being literally attached to me. I see my birthmark more prominent now that I'm wearing a tank top, and I've never felt more intrigued by it than I do now.

They all seem to like it. My skin is nothing like the models, but they've marveled at it, calling it perfect. To them, it is flawless and worth every billboard and magazine ad for the world to see. They would revel in its supposed clarity, caressing it every time they would get their chance. I would grant them such a chance since I would believe their caresses to be their methods of expressing their affections for me, and I would in turn return the sentiment. That's how this always goes--a transaction, a relationship that would benefit both parties and leave nothing compensated for.

I admit it has not always been like this. I have turned to the idea after the very first of their lot has left me hanging for more; it has been unfair to be kind. I figure that I have overestimated just how much I deserve, so I have learned to settle for less. For the past few years, I've allowed myself to sign into these contracts, but I couldn't help expecting more than what has been agreed upon. In the end I continue to hurt myself more while the other party leaves satisfied.

I look at my naked arms, wondering just how overused this canvas has been. I have been a variable with which they can experiment, a blank sheet upon which they can make their mark, a toy with which they can play. I have signed into too many transactions without any rewards, and now I feel no more as useless as a broken china doll. I've botched everything, and now it's my fault.

I scour the walls around me, looking for a blank space upon which I can express myself. I may have sold myself out as a canvas, but that doesn't mean I don't know how to use one. My inner turmoils have permitted me to express myself onto notebooks, sketch pads, and scratch papers before turning to my own room's walls after running out of sheets to draw on. My walls have quickly turned into a mess of doodles worthy of every street artist's approval, and now I've run out space.

I can't express myself anymore now, or can't I?

I look at the mirror again and notice my arms as pale as a blank canvas upon an easel. I admire them differently this time, wondering why I haven't thought of it before. I watch my face light up in my reflection, and I know this here is a smart move.

I scramble around for the nearest writing material I could find, holding it firmly in my palm as I move to hold it over my forearm. I waste no time and set myself to work right away, watching the item's steel tip glide over my skin. I don't think too hard on the design, but my mind has already been made up for long before I've allowed all this to happen to me. This all feels unconventional, but it's strangely more exhilarating than anything I could've drawn on another blank sheet of paper. I could almost feel myself give way to this, but I hold on until the end, excited for the end result.

Three hours later, I glance at the tattoo I've gone to have etched onto my arm, marveling my 'arm' of an artist's jointed doll with cracks akin to a broken porcelain doll. It feels extreme especially since it's my very first tattoo, but after being held off for too long, this beauty has called to me, begging me to have it inked onto my arm. I've only taken one glance, and I just know this is the one for me.

As elated as I am over this accomplished project, I start to feel my essence drain from me. I feel like I'm about to faint, so I lie down on the bed upon which I've been sitting, smiling all along as I could feel my sheets getting drenched. My vision starts to blur as my head turns to the side, finding a stream of crimson flowing from my arms. My body wastes no time cutting me off from every sensation, every memory, every reminder of a waste that I've been.

No more transactions, no more contracts, no more sensations, no more memories.

I've never felt more free.