Red Writing Hood: Tattoo

Prompt: If you haven’t figured it out, this week, we’d like you to write a piece in which a tattoo figures prominently.

This goes along with THIS and THIS. I personally do not have a tattoo, although I intended to get one when I turned forty. Part of it has to do with a rampant fear of needles, but the fact is that I can't decide what kind of tattoo I want. It has to be something that will hold up to the saggy skin that I will inevitably have, and it has to be something that I won't get bored with in five years.




Mela slowly opened her eyes and realized that she was in her own home. She was not in her bed, but on the floor in front of the fireplace. The fire was burning brightly; it was the shrieking whistle of the kettle that had brought her out of her darkness. She sat up slowly, disoriented. When she could, Mela grabbed the tongs that were propped next to the fire and pulled the kettle off to the side to stop the horrible screaming. A frown creased her brow. She put her hands on the ground to push herself to her feet.

And stared.

There was now a magnificently detailed tattoo of a red and gold dragon coiled on the inside of her left wrist. The veins quickly pulsing underneath the skin of her wrist made the dragon come alive; its tail seemed to undulate as it curled around her arm. In the firelight, the eyes of the dragon appeared to glow, and the smoky breath of the tattoo felt warm. Mela put her fingers on that warmth, incredulous.

She had a sudden image of running through the forest in the twilight, glowing eyes above her, the sound of leathery wings chasing her, falling, then hot breath on the back of her neck, a male voice whispering "You are mine."

And...chanting? Chanting was only for magic. A low moan of fear escaped her.

If anyone saw the tattoo, she would be burned at the stake.