Gemotions

"So, you see," the tattoo artist said, gesturing with a gloved hand toward the man sitting in the chair, a perfect rendition of Clara's "Whispering Woods" emerging on his back. Clara felt her chest constrict.

She’d never agreed to this. She’d never given permission. She stared at the artist, her lip curling in disgust. His explanation was laced with a careless, almost patronizing tone.

She wanted to dismantle the entire studio. Every needle, every chair. She wanted to obliterate the image. Her hands clenched. She felt the urge to hit something.