Roses And Guns

5

He sat down at the stool in front of me.

He looked at me and I knew what he was saying. Roll up your shirt.

I took the hem of my shirt and moved it up very carefully and stopped it just before my bra could be seen.

I didn't expect that a eighteen years old tattooist would first see me like this.

But, nah, his expression was normal.
I sighed out of relief.

Don't act pervert now, boy.

"Open your bra."

God, kill me. I should never see this boy again.

I reached for the hook of it, and opened it ever so slowly, pulling my shirt down a bit and laying down again.

He took something and I read it, isopropyl alcohol.

"Why are you putting this?"

"For sterilization." He mumbled lowly, wiping it over my skin.

It had a soothing effect. I eased up a bit, exhaling.

"Would this be okay?" He asked showing me a thin paper, probably known as the tattoo transfer paper where a rose's stencil was already drawn.

It was perfect. Aesthetic enough.

I nodded.

"It's good." I mumbled.

He applied the paper.

"Is this place okay? Or would you like it a bit down?" He asked.

I needed to say a proper location or my first dream tattoo would be a fail.

"Nope, a bit up, actually." I licked my lips, and he set it exactly in the same location I wished it to be.

"Yeah, here." I mumbled and he hummed.

A damp sponge in one of his hand and the paper on another. He correctly aligned it and wiped the damp sponge over it a number of times.

Wet. The water was rolling down my back and I moved a bit.

"Don't move." He said, finally taking off the paper.

He wore his black gloves. My heart was beating loudly and I glanced at the machine kept just beside the stool.

It was waiting to puncture my skin.

My hands were sweating.

"Uh, will it pain a lot?" I asked, gulping as he took the machine in his hand.

"This is your first, isn't it?" He looked at me.

I nodded.

"Don't worry, clutch your pillow and don't move. Like do anything, but don't move. Alright?" I nodded again and exhaled.

I closed my eyes and I felt the needle.

A sharp stinging pain.

I had already clutched whatever was in front of me, and clenched my teeth, shut my eyes tightly as the needle drove in.
I felt my tears. It was hard to breathe.
Everytime my rib cage moved, the pain became intense.

I never thought this  could be a way to kill people.

I didn't care what I would look like. But I kept myself shut from sobbing. I would move a lot then, and maybe that needle would actually kill me to death.

I stopped breathing and he applied a slimy thing over that place.

I suppose it was Vaseline. I had read that.