Happy Friday! It’s time for another installment in Frisky Friday Flash Fiction. You know the drill. I provide a picture and the first lines of a story (300 words maximum). You provide the rest. I select the best and post it the following week.
Let’s look back at last week’s story:
He said I was a blank canvas waiting to be adorned.
But what he wanted to paint on my skin shouldn’t be placed on any body. Ever.
Problem is, I had no choice. He owned me. My mind, my body, my soul.
Last week I entered a tattoo parlor. I paid five hundred dollars for a tattoo design that everyone would envy. Hours later, I woke up naked in a darkened room.
“Are you ready to finish?” The raspy voice came out of the dark. I had no idea how much time had passed. He tossed a couple of hand towels in my direction.
I caught a glimpse of what was etched on my forearm—something resembling a triangle with what looked like fingers stretching from it. I touched it, and my skin glowed bright red.
“You want to refrain from that. It calls up the Master.” The man, misshapen and short in stature, edged closer to me. His tattoo gun whirred softly. “Now for the next one.”
His needle breached my skin, and I screamed. Tattoos can be painful, but this one made my skin burn and my insides crawl. It took him mere minutes to sketch the design, but the agony continued long afterward.
I sat up and looked down at the strange eye gracing my thigh. I touched it. The eyelashes tickled my palm.
“I said not to touch it,” he warned again. “There’s one more before He arrives.”
I tried to scoot away from the odd artist and his tormenting gun. He grabbed my ankle and dragged me closer. This time the needle smoked as the ink embedded into my skin. Pain seared through my bones.
When he finished, a snake slithered up my calf. The eye blinked. The fingers pointed toward the door.
And now for this week’s:
No one thought I’d be back.
They wrote me off and tossed my remains like last night’s spoiled food.
But I told them I’d return. And now it’s time for a little vengeance.