Inked

Chapter One: Simple Wishes

The teacher droned on endlessly about how in the past, people got to choose their tattoos. It seemed so crazy to think that there were more people just like me, with flawless, empty skin, unmarked by the artificial ink that the artists used to use. Everyone around me- everyone BUT me- was somehow marked by what science now refers to as "Soul Ink". It comes from within, no needle required. Our bodies decide on our artwork now, and we really don't get a say.

A few people cast glances back at me when the teacher mentioned how everyone now, over the age of usually 12, has tattoos. We discussed this at the beginning of every new school year. And every time, like annual clockwork, it was the same kind of response from the student body. I sent my peers a two finger salute of acknowledgement- like, "Yes, I am fully aware that I seem to be the exception,"- and pretend to jot down a note onto my Tab. Instead of a note though, I wrote three little words that had been my motto since I realized I was different: "I hate tattoos."

In reality though, I didn't really hate tattoos. I hated how not having any made me so different from everyone else. And even though my parents always told me to love my differences, I can't help but be a little bitter. Because of my differences, I grew up an outcast. Despite all the doctor trips, the tests, and the research that had been run on me over the years, we never got answers as to why I never developed Ink. A handful of my doctors remained optimistic, telling me that I might just be late bloomer, that my tattoos might just not be ready- whatever that means. But for the most part, research showed nothing conclusive and I was faced with the reality that I am not like the rest of my peers. And that was definitely the hardest part.

Being reminded constantly of my differences.

I tapped my stylus on my lip and sighed right as the intercom dinged on, and our principals face appeared over the Holo Projector. She smiled at us, her eyes crinkling up around the edges, and a handful of students waved. Most people liked Mrs. Haloway, myself included. She was easily the friendliest authority figure I had come in contact with. She cleared her throat to speak.

"At this time I would like to introduce transfer student Rogue Jameson. He will follow schedule 6. Pardon the interruption, continue with your studies and don't forget to make Rogue feel welcome."

The projection blinked away the same time as the door opened, and murmurs from the entirety of the female students rippled audibly around the room. Even my mouth fell open a little bit.

He was drop dead perfect, with eyes black as night and hair only a few shades lighter. Everywhere that skin shown was intricate tattoos, ranging from a giant sea serpent wrapped around his arm, and another on his neck read "Love Bites" across a battered banner; probably the result of a relationship gone awry.

"Mr. Jameson," The teacher began, "please have a seat by ms. Eve if you would and turn to page 21 in your eBook."

Rogue silently sought me out, and all the girls eyed him with a look that could only be described as pity.

"Poor guy had to get stuck next to her," I heard Avery Writtenhouse, a blond girl with big, blue eyes and a colorful tattoo of animals, mutter to the small mousy girl next to her. The girl nodded silently, giving me a look like I was some pitiful lab rabbit. I rolled my eyes and tried my hardest to ignore Rogues presence as he sat beside me.

I was honestly surprised when he stuck his hand out to me in greeting. "Nice to meet you."

My eyes narrowed on their own accord and I took his hand slowly, tentatively.

"Likewise," I replied with the smallest smile. I was wearing a tank top, for Gods sake. Why hadn't he already mentioned my lack of body art? Everyone else in the world seemed to.