Gemotions

He kept seeing them. Everywhere. The same curve of a wing, the specific tilt of a head, replicated on biceps and calves. It was his signature, etched onto strangers. He’d gone to the tattoo parlor, a sleek space he’d never considered entering before, and found the artist who had been doing the work. The artist said it was a coincidence, a common style.

Now, every subway car, every cafe, every crowded street sent him into a cold sweat. He kept checking his own skin, expecting to find the ink on himself. His hand twitched, reflexively seeking the back of his neck, where he knew there was no space for a tattoo.

He started keeping the blinds drawn, even on the brightest days. The phone was off, and he would only leave the apartment after dark, cloaked and hooded.