Show Me Your Tats

“Show me your tats,” Dennis grins, and you forgot you had them for a second. You're drunk and when you stand up you feel the alcohol siphoning its way down your insides. You're definitely buzzed, but you still know this could be awkward and you want to make sure you get your physical position right, for showing Dennis your tats. You shift your weight on the barrel you're sitting on. A little bit over there, there's a campfire that some kids are dancing around. You wonder if any of them are high and realize dimly that they definitely are and this makes you sad for some reason.

“Dude,” Dennis says, and you're back with the living.

“Oh, right,” you say, your heart beginning to race, you knowing this was a bad idea. This was a really bad idea. You rock back and forth on the barrel, sort of tip it forward, then back again, feeling its weight beneath you. You're delaying the moment. Dennis is staring at you blankly with an empty beer cup in his hand. It's now or never, you think. You look over there at the kids dancing around the campfire, singing songs. “Fuck them,” you think, and you roll up the sleeve on your sweater, expecting the worst but no longer caring.

The word “murderer” has been jaggedly cut into your arm, creating vast open wounds that are now just bloody stitches, snarled fishing line, black and red. Dennis is staring at your arm. You feel yourself getting a hangover. Finally, after kneeling down to examine the wounds, Dennis stands up again.

He says, “far out,” and grins.

“Huh?” you ask, not really there.

“Far out,” Dennis says, and when you look back up the grin is still there.

“They're really rad,” Dennis continues. “Where'd you get them?”

“Hey!” Dennis yells.” “Krysta!” A thin, pretty girl is dancing around the campfire and when Dennis gets her attention she looks over and he says “Get over here” and she gets over here. You're frozen to your wooden-barrel seat, stuck now in a purgatory you wish you'd never let yourself enter.

“Check out this guy's tattoos,” Dennis says excitedly. “They're really sick.”

When Krysta bends down to examine my tattoos I notice how soft and white her skin is.

She stands up again, looks me in the eye, and then says, “Dude. Very ill,” deadpanning the words to make herself seem more hard. “Wicked tats,” Krysta continues. “Who did 'em?”

You stare at the empty beer cup in your hands.