Never go to a tattoo artist if bad luck is following you

𝟬𝟭 | 𝗜 𝗵𝗮𝘁𝗲 𝗮𝗿𝘁 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗮𝗿𝘁 𝗵𝗮𝘁𝗲𝘀 𝗺𝗲.

English is not my first language, so if you find any mistakes, please excuse me and feel free to correct them so I can improve!

I swing open the wooden door leading to the kitchen, grab one of the chairs around the table, and turn it to sit astride it. I look up to meet my parents' gaze, which was already fixed on me. "I need money," I start.

My father raises an eyebrow. "How much?"

I look at him. This is the moment he's going to kill me. "A little money..." I take a moment while he waits for my answer. "Something like a hundred or two hundred-"

My father interrupts immediately with, "I'm broke." He returns to reading the newspaper he had left on the table during my entrance.

My mother hasn't said a word yet. She continues to stare at me, and I must admit it's becoming unsettling. "Did you get yourself into trouble with some drug dealer and owe them money?" she asks.

I roll my eyes. "No, but-"

Before I can finish, she interrupts me. "Are you in trouble in general?"

"No m-" I'm interrupted again.

"Are you risking your life if we don't give you this money?" she continues.

Oh God, this conversation will never end.

"No, I'm not risking my-" and once again, she doesn't let me finish. Jesus, I can't do this.

"Then you don't need it," she declares.

She goes back to cooking while my father chuckles under his breath.

"Oh come on, I need it for a tattoo," I grumble. Both of them burst into laughter. What did I say that was so funny?

"You want to get a tattoo?" my mother asks, laughing. "You, who are afraid of needles?"

My father calms down slightly and then speaks. "Do I need to remind you what happened the last time we took you for a vaccination?"

Ouch, that's a low blow.

There is a faint but real possibility that I accidentally punched the man who was supposed to give me the vaccination, breaking his nose. In my defense, I can say that I have such a great right hook that the other doctor in the room even complimented me.

I groan, exasperated. "Oh come on! That was two years ago! I'm a mature person now," I say, now thoroughly exasperated.

My mother raises an eyebrow. "Just because you turned eighteen almost a month ago doesn't make you mature." Then she leaves the room to go who knows where.

I turn to my father and stare at him. An idea comes to me. "Dad!" I call out. "Does Mom know that last weekend, when you were supposed to take her shopping, you weren't really in the hospital because a friend got hurt, but you were at his house watching the baseball game?" He flinches. "I could keep quiet in exchange for that money..." I smirk. I'll get that tattoo.

He looks at me threateningly. "You," he points a finger at me, "little evil dwarf, wouldn't dare..." then he stops speaking and pretends to wipe a tear. "No, you would definitely dare. I raised you quite well," he says, proud of himself.

We both check that Mom isn't coming back. He turns to me. "Here, and if there's any change, bring it back to me. And for safety, bring me the receipt too." He opens his wallet and puts some bills in my hand. He puts his wallet back in his pocket and continues speaking. "Your mother must never know anything. Neither about the baseball game nor about the money I gave you." He looks at me one last time. "And I want the change."

"Count on it," I say, waving my hand as if shooing away an insect. I put the money in my pocket and grab the house keys. "It's a pleasure doing business with you," I say.