When he woke in the morning, the tattoos were gone. He couldn't say he was surprised. Even through the hours spent with gritted teeth, cringing from the needle in the overheated back room, he'd suspected what would happen.
He munched a piece of toast and idly doodled on his hand with a permanent marker. He wrote his name, and watched as that, too, faded into his skin
The steak knife, dirty by the sink, caught his attention.
No. He'd find a way to leave a mark. He glanced at the knife once more on his way out.
Not yet, anyway.
Vossler on Soaping and Writing
8 hours ago