Day 172 - Tattoo Story

Tattoo Story

Matthew Ryan Fischer

Shane groggily opened his eyes, slightly unaware of where he was or what time it was. He was outside. Maybe in a park somewhere or in the woods. He looked around. It could have been a hiking trail. Had he gone out jogging and slipped and fallen? He couldn’t remember. He wasn’t dressed for exercise, but his head was sore and he felt dizzy and disoriented like a concussion might feel.

The inside of his left forearm hurt, right at the wrist. His brain was foggy and it took him a moment to focus his attention. When he did he was shocked and disappointed, then confused until he became a little bit worried.

There on his wrist was the tattoo. It read “Victim #119.” He didn’t understand what was going on. He didn’t remember getting a tattoo and certainly had no idea what “Victim #119” meant.

It was a surprisingly clean and well produced tattoo, even if it was fairly simple. The font was ordinary – san-serif, monospaced, nondescript – basically a pretty boring type font, but consistent, well-crafted and evenly done so that it appeared more like typewriter type rather than a drawing. It looked very deliberate and purposeful. It probably took a fair amount of time to create.

Shane quickly recounted the events of the previous night. He couldn’t remember any drinking or drugs or socializing at all. There wasn’t some cliché excuse of an explanation where too much excess led to more idiotic behavior. That was actually disappointing. He would rather have it as part of a humorous story. He held out hope that maybe one of his friends could fill him in on what had happened and there was was still a logical explanation.

He reached for his arm, holding out a small bit of hope that the tattoo wasn’t real and it would rub off. No such luck. It was definitely the real deal.

He reached for his cellphone and that was when Shane realized that it and his wallet were both missing. He clearly had been the victim of some sort of crime. Maybe he had been hit over the head. That would explain the concussion and why everything was so foggy. But what about that tattoo? That really didn’t explain the tattoo. Unless the thief was also a tattoo artist that enjoyed leaving evidence branded on his victims.

Shane wondered what sort of thief would do that. In a day and age of cutting edge forensic sciences it seemed like a pretty insane and sloppy thing to do. Maybe the thief was just that brash and egotistical. Shane had read a book documenting graffiti artists, and they certainly liked to flaunt their crimes and advertise their names. Maybe this was that same sort of mindset, full of bravado and arrogance. Or maybe this guy was just stupid and begging to be caught.

As Shane walked home he began to imagine his thief/tattooist as a sadist. Maybe the thief was a pervert. Perhaps he really had done this to 118 other people, and then sat around somewhere getting off on the idea that there were hundreds of people out there that had been marked and had to be constantly reminded of the violation. Perhaps that was the true purpose of the crime – to leave behind a mental and physical scar. The tattoo was the sick reminder of what had happened. The victims were forever altered. Even if they had the tattoo removed, there would be the scar. There would always be something physical to remind the person of the crime. Shane suddenly felt incredibly violated. Much more so from the tattoo than from the loss of the wallet. He knew he would never be able to forget this. No matter what he did, he would never forget this crime.

Later Shane would search the web for other victims and sure enough, they were out there. Not all 118 had a web presence, but enough did. They were sad and angry and bitter. Some blogged about it. Others took photos. There were a few various support groups.

Shane began attending meetings with one group of victims. Eventually he fell in love with “Victim 33” and ended up marrying her and having a child. It didn’t make the mental pain of the violation go away, but it certainly put a positive spin on it. Shane couldn’t help but wonder if falling in love was a fair trade. Maybe his tattooing thief wasn’t a sadist at all – maybe he was on some sort of insane but holy mission to create connections and bring people together. Shane knew there was no way this was a divine intervention, but somehow having that thought allowed him to forgive and forget and even smile sometimes when he looked at the scar on his arm.