Devotion In Ink - JJK

1. Not So Warm Welcome

BIRDS OF A FEATHER

It's incredibly hard to understand why your job is so glamorised. As an artist, working in a tattoo parlour is undeniably the lowest tier of creativity you could place your work in. The flow of customers isn't necessarily the Ritz material, however it puts money in your pocket and food in the fridge.

You would hate to consider yourself "married to your work," nonetheless your frontal cortex nudges you, even in the depths of sleep, shrieking various ideas and new ways for you to permanently scar willing customers. An ember desk sits beside your bed, plastered with intricate artworks and mere flashes that will probably never see the light of day. Your co workers and boss have faith in your abilities, although they have never seen your drafts; you're too insecure.

Your art is for you, you are your biggest critic and each time you finish a piece, a serpent tongue is quick to spew venom onto your pages, burning holes through your self esteem. You won't let yourself be proud. To you, pride suggests arrogance, and the last thing you will ever be is a stuck up asshole expecting praise from everyone who lay their eyes on your work. Not even you. You feel you haven't earnt that admiration. Anybody can draw.

You had thought of showing some of your friends your pathetic little murals, yet, again your doubt got the better of you, started tearing shreds into your all-too-big ego, made it bleed. Now scars lie in its wake, it doesn't hurt until you applaud your talent again, new scars are formed and your ego cries. You don't know why you do it, it makes you feel weak. Makes you feel stupid. You ridicule yourself for ridiculing yourself. Even when you win you lose. Self depreciation seems to be your biggest downfall.

In the middle of the day you work your shift, casual Paramore humming through the speakers of the lobby where your co-worker, Jia, sits idly. Wednesdays are slower than most, you get the casual newly eighteen year old who couldn't wait to rebel against their parents, or the middle aged worker going through an identity crisis.

The one day you dreaded no matter how many times you had lived it was a Friday. Friday, meant partying, parties mean alcohol, and alcohol leads to drunken thoughts, equalling mistakes that people could not come back from. You're yet to experience anything crazy, but Jia's told you a handful of times she's ushered away intoxicated possés. Sounds like a nightmare, you'd told her. Sometimes you felt like her job, being the receptionist, was tougher than being the tattoo artist. Keeping to yourself was easy, you never really had to pay the front desk a visit unless you were on break, or you were letting one of your colleagues know you were clocking out for the day.

"You've a 3:30 appointment today," Jia knocks on the door to your office, her sweet voice simmering through the door. She was all too kind, she always knocked and still never opened the door, she understood your need to work alone, in the quiet there is solace.

Three thirty, only one person visits at that time in the middle of the week. Your shoulders drop as you let out a sigh, mentally preparing yourself for your best friend to walk through the doors.
The tattoo parlour — The Black Snake sits at the end of the main road two streets down from your house in the main part of town. It's rustic in the best way, it isn't falling apart, however it is an ideal place that looks like people have had experiences, memories in. A board of designs occupy a giant cork board on the right where the main desk sits, you often take a look at the works of other designers working with you, a slick little voice berating you for ever thinking your stupid little doodles could ever compare. You sew its mouth shut yet it always has a pair of scissors to cut the stitches.