Gemotions

The tattoo parlor was dimly lit, reeking of disinfectant and stale cigarettes. The air crackled with a tension that mirrored the turmoil inside me. I stood before the artist, a burly man with a bored expression. The man had inked my design, a complicated piece about loss, onto a client.

“You know, it’s not exactly legal,” I stated, my voice strained. My hands were balled into fists, barely under control.

He shrugged, picking at a loose thread on his jeans. “They brought the design. I just put it on.” The nonchalance of his response was enough to make my blood boil.

I wanted to say more, to demand answers, to scream about the lack of respect. Instead, I just turned and walked out, the anger a heavy weight in my chest. The door slammed behind me with a loud bang.