Seven Kevorkian// Capitol// Wip

Every tattoo tells a story, does not have to be a meaningful one but there is always a story to be told.

Sitting on the bathroom floor when you were only 14, you and your friends dipped a needle into the ink extracted from a ball point pen and started poking at your skin. They said you would feel a bit of resistance coming from your body. A signal letting you know when you were into to deep. The first few jabs went in too deep, and a dark red blood became very visible. Learn from your mistakes, a little less force. Try and be a little gentle this time. There it was the elastic feeling of the skin letting you know it was time to stop.

Your first tattoo, X marked the spot on your inner left ankle.

The majority of your teen years were spent on friends’ bathrooms and empty houses when parents were away painting art all over your body’s. Nowadays many of those art pieces were covered up with professional work. Few remain in order to tell the story of how you got started in the industry. The story of stupid teenage mistakes that were only a bittersweet aftertaste now.

You hid your talent from your scholarly parents for as long as you could. They had your life mapped out before you were even born. You were to do well at school, go to university, become a historian like your parents, like your older sister and like your older brother. There was only one path that was ever considered in your family, but it was not the path you were meant to take. Your devotion to the past would be a different kind. The kind that manifested in scars, battle wounds and ink.