The Tattoo

A scream.

Footsteps. A dire wail.

Who knew that her life was never going to be the same again? Well, there are some things that cannot be avoided, no matter how hard one tries. Some would call it fate. She would rather call it her bad luck. She ran with all that she had it in her, she wanted to be of help. But what “fate” had in store for her was something… what do you call it? Not gory – there was no blood involved.  She went to the room – the source of all the screams. Surprisingly, the people were  not crowding around the door step. That should have been her first clue. But as usual,she ignored the obvious. She reached the room, looked in and noticed half of a shawl from the ceiling  and people trying to revive the poor soul on the bed. The poor soul’s face – a rebellion. Frowning – refusing to breathe.

One look, and it ruined her. For life. Every face that she saw juxtaposed to the poor soul’s contorted face. The ceiling fans became The-ones -that-shall not-be-named.  Sleep evaded her the way a seductress would her lover. Nothing had prepared her for this.

A scream.

Footsteps. A dire wail.

The tattoo of her soul.


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