It was early in the morning when Everett began tattooing me with his chosen mark. He had me sit on his lap with a light shining on my back as I held up my hair for him. Each time he cut deep enough to make me bleed, he’d lean forward and kiss my shoulder, or tell me how much he loved me.
He drew it on first, so it didn’t take him long to use his scalpel to slice open my skin and then he applied the dye.
“Are you able to close your skin without healing your body underneath?” he asked me.
“Like this?” I asked, working to do what he asked. It was harder than I thought, only healing my skin but letting the dye continue to seep into my flesh.
“Yes. Does that hurt?” he asks, rubbing his thumb over the area I just sealed.
“It’s tender, but it doesn’t hurt. It’s probably the same way my mark
