Board Thread:Writer's Workshop/@comment-24996913-20140910203423

I have quite the collection of tattoos. Of course, being the professional I am, I cover them up whenever I am out in public. You may think me doing so is pointless, and to an extent, it is. See, I don't have to make a point. I don't get tattoos for the hell of it. I don't run around town, screaming out for attention, bearing insignificant quotes tattooed on my body. No, that's just plain absurd.

Tattoos are meant to be meaningful. They are meant to lock in a memory you never want to release from your mind, body, or soul. Sitting down in that chair should be an emotional moment for you. Whether you're getting matching tattoos with your boyfriend or girlfriend, etching a memorial of a now deceased loved one, or permanently tattooing the face of your newborn child onto you, each tattoo should have significance, meaning, and depth.

Unfortunately, as the culture devolved into what it is now, the depth and significance has dissipated from thought. The majority of people sitting within tattoo parlors are there solely for the "cool factor." They scan through the book of tattoos before them, ignorant of what they want. Some people come in asking the tattoo artist what a specific Chinese character means, before allowing the man to permanently etch a foreign language onto their skin, regardless of whether or not the translation was accurate.

Subsequently, I'm forced to witness this devolution of meaningful self expression. I no longer see significance; I no longer see memories etched upon the skin. Now, it is only garbage influenced by drugs, alcohol, and or peer pressure.

Still, even with the knowledge of idiocy within the body modification and tattoo community, I visit tattoo parlors regularly. I've always been obsessed with tattoos. Even when I had none, I visited the tattoo shops, chatting with the clientele. The smell in the air, the music, the laughter... it's all well worth the suffering that comes along with it.

Most people here know I'm a regular. I've befriended mostly everyone within the building, including my favorite artist, Ben. Oftentimes, I watch from a distance as he beautifully crafts what will eventually become something noteworthy.

But the magic doesn't end in just watching.

After the client leaves the parlor, is when the real crafting begins. Now, at this very moment, I am walking behind a woman who had just gotten a tiger tattooed on her right shoulder-blade. She's walking so calmly, the wind caressing her bountiful curls as she sways down the sidewalk. It's mind boggling to watch her walk with such purpose, as if she had accomplished something by getting a meaningless tattoo on her body. She didn't even bother covering the saran wrap protecting her tattoo; she only wanted to show off the fact that she had gotten one.

The cold of the air certainly was enough to cause harm to her fresh tattoo. Cold weather is likely to dry the skin out, making the healing process a much longer one. She didn't even bother covering it. She didn't fucking bother covering it. She didn't EVEN bother covering it.

This upset me a lot. These people... they don't even deserve to bear such art on their body's. They are posers. They corrupt the artistry. They ruin it, dimming down its significance... its power.

I couldn't allow such desecration of essence, so I made a choice; one that was justified in its brutality.

I waited for her to turn down a barren street. As she walked, her arms wrapping securely around her shivering body, I followed behind. Instinctively, as if she had felt that gut instinct of someone watching her, her head turned in each direction, swiftly. Of course, I was much too fast for her. Anytime she looked back, I was gone, hidden amongst the shadows endorsed by the flickering street-lights.

Due to the heightened sensation of being watched, her pace picked up to a near jog... as did mine. This time, when she turned in my direction, awaiting to see some creep following closely behind, she saw me. Her eyes widened on impact before she began sprinting towards the busy street of Kingston Boulevard. I chased after her. At first, I jogged, giving myself a moment to witness the beauty of the hot air escaping her mouth as the chilly night's air engulfed it, wrapping it in a foggy gaseous cloud.

Once the beauty of her rapid breathing ceased from thought, I sprinted at full speed towards her, tackling her as I approached. Naturally, she fought back for a while, screaming as if anyone ever travelled down this street this late at night. Her efforts were abortive.

"Why are you doing this?" she questioned, her beautiful, blue eyes set upon me.

I smiled feverishly, caressing her cheek.

"Don't worry. I just want a new tattoo," I said, flipping her onto her stomach before mounting her.

She struggled for a while, screaming as if I was murdering her, completely blind to fact that I was actually helping her. I pulled out the scalpel from my jacket pocket, and removed the saran wrap from the tattoo. I stared at it for a while, caressing its bumpy surface, before lowering the scalpel to it.

She screamed a lot, but I was beaming with excited as I cut away the tiger, smiling as blood oozed from the wound. My fingernails began to pack with the crimson liquid escaping the woman's back. The warmth it provided was... comforting. It reminded me of my mission: to give significance to the insignificant. And, once the last incision was made and the flap of flesh laid within the palm of my hand, I placed the saran wrap over the gaping hole, pulled out the plastic bag hiding within my jacket pocket, and grabbed the disposable phone to dial 911.

"911 what's your emergency?" the operator questioned.

"Please, hurry! I found a woman that needs medical care. She's on Hanna Avenue. Please, hurry!" I yelled into the phone, before hanging up.

The woman groaned, staring at the cement sidewalk her head laid upon, as I pushed the cellphone through a sewer drain a few paces away. Once I placed the tiger into the plastic bag, I approached the woman, kneeling at her side.

"Now, you will have a scar. A scar with meaning, my love. Everyday you look upon it, you will remember this night. It will be a memory engraved into your skin," I said, caressing her face with my bloodied hand. 