Tattoos - The Luxury {Louie and Death}

Tattoos, what a luxury. I almost feel bad for people in the less wealthy Districts. Having to farm, mine, fish, who wants to do that? Personally, I wouldn't mind too much, but the life I live now is so much better than theirs. I mean, District One, the Luxury District. It just sounds so much better than everything else. I'd be fine living in most of the other Districts, but the one I wouldn't be able to even step in would be District Twelve. All that black dust that comes off of the coal. Even the people who don't work in the mines get covered in it! It's craziness to me. Here I am, sitting here, the tattoo parlor where my father works, and over half of Panem is probably scooping up cow dung, or sewing things, or fishing.

People stood in front of me, today the line going to the entrance door. Busy day today, seems like everybody in District One wants a tattoo today. I sit down in a small, red, leather chair that spins. Sure, I'm too old to be doing this, but spinning around in the chairs is so fun. Like I'm on a train, but I never stop. I watch the blurred figures pass by me as I spin, my hair waving wildly.

I come to an abrupt stop, my vision turning upside down. I feel as if I will throw up for just a moment, before all is normal. I feel my lips curl up as I let out a laugh. The aftermath may not be as pleasant, but the actual action is. I feel as if I were riding a horse, the wind blowing through my hair, the blurred images flying passed me. That's what I'd like, a horse. I can see myself now, riding a horse through an open field. 

I hear a whisper about the up coming reaping and I feel my heart in my throat. I'd forgotten about that. It was only a few days until said reaping. I'd put it into the back of my mind, in hopes of forgetting. Well, that sure worked. To distract myself, I decided to watch people in the parlor. 

I love people watching. The bizarre looks of everybody before and after they get their tattoo. Even the small ones you can tell the difference. The creativity of the tattoo artists, including my father. He was very good at his job. Thankfully he found something he was good at other than running illegal brawling sessions. 

I lean back in my chair, watching the people intently, with the occasional glance at my father, who has been working on a middle-aged man for the passed fifteen minutes now.



Death