Sarah Laker

4 - The Tattoo

His skin began to itch, faintly pin-pricking among the dark hairs along his arm. Duncan Goodwin took a deep breath and watched, entrapped by the mirror's reflection.

The faded net curtains hanging across the small bathroom window twitched erratically, flapping waves of lavender scent around the tiny room.

Duncan's knees trembled, his leg knocked lightly against the side of the cast iron bathtub, which ran along the left wall. So much time had passed since he'd been plagued by that nervous energy, which had always preceeded a bout of violence from his father. Yet, here it was again, the heavy energy preempted by the movement of his tattoo. He scarcely believed his eyes as the unimaginable became reality. He gulped back the collection of saliva in his mouth and gasped as the sensation of irritation grew stronger across his tattoo.

The three black inked claws on each of the four feet were beginning to stretch out. Reaching through the surface of his skin and sending him reeling into a panic, shaking his head and whining in disbelief.

It was the same. The exact emotion and fear he'd had that day when he'd finally stood up to protect his mother.

She'd been late getting home from work at the supermarket, and his father was in a foul mood. At nineteen years old, Duncan had lived through his fair share of tragedy. His father's violent outbreaks were always on the brink of explosion, and Duncan's instincts had created an alarm system to forewarn him of the coming danger. Clara had been aware of this situation, having come from a troubled, family life herself. She'd sympathised with him but he'd never suspected that she felt pity. Pity was the last thing that could have helped him. A year after her death and there he was once more - stuck between fear for his mother, for fear of his father - that same terrible sensation.

The dragon's claws ceased their motion, relieving the sharpness of the irritation - but stinging as they lay buried into his flesh. Duncan's heart banged against his chest, and he could feel its beat thumping along his neck.

Daylight had given way to a pale shade of grey. The only patch of light from the window surrounded the round mirror, forming a circle of soft illumination on the patch of his arm with the tattoo.

He couldn't move. He was frozen, just as he had been immobilised so many times during his childhood.

Sitting, and listening at the bottom of the stairs, little Duncan hugged his knees and rocked himself in quick jerky movements. His father's angry words and his mother's plaintiff replies reached him from upstairs.

"Is that all you've got to say to me, woman? Can't you even try to come up with some kind of excuse? What the hell were you doing in Paul's house?"

"No, no. I wasn't there to see him. He wasn't even home. I was there to see--"

"Don't lie to me. You know how I get if you lie! Why would you want me to do that? Come over here. I said come over HERE!"

The young boy heard his mother's shuffling footsteps and the pleading in her quiet, terrified manner and then the moment of silence. That one second of still anticipation, the standby of intense electrical charge waiting for the release... And then...

The tail of the dragon tattoo whipped upwards from out of Duncan's skin, becoming physically real, a thick, scaly limb with razor sharp spikes. Caught in that moment of pre-strike, the young man watched the tail flick erratically, protruding an inch above his arm. He could hardly breathe. It's alive! The god damn dragon tattoo, solid and real. What the fuck is going on? He gathered his senses together, knowing just what was coming next, gritting his teeth and clenching his fists.