The Tattoo

Twinkle-toes, not because of sparkly nail polish but because I like to twirl everywhere I walk. I would wear a heavy barmaid's skirt with that weird strap that goes under a busty woman and cups her shoulders. I would always wear boots covering a scar on my ankle where I got a bad tattoo from the first guy I had to shoot. I never tell the story but my partner knows since she was there. It was her husband of all people, eager to try out a new needle and ink on some poor sap. I had been bitten by a rattler but not killed thanks to a neighbour's quick thinking as a child and was always anxious about my ankles since so I decided to let this guy, let's call him Brent, tattoo me. We'll call my friend Nyx, and she was close by with a gun at her side and her hands full of lemonade.

"So when can we expect you to be findin a husband?" she'll ask me in front of Brent because she doesn't want him suspecting anything going on between us.

"Maybe tomorrow," I mutter through clenched teeth as Brent hacks away at flesh and sends lines of inky blood down my heel. "Maybe Wednesday. Depends on how my tattoo heals."

She is barely eighteen and shouldn't even be married herself. I am grazing sixteen since that's the age that all old barmaids look back on tenderly. I wince and move my knee to watch Brent make a blob with the needle. He wipes away the blood then his sweat with the same towel. Brent was never the brightest bulb in the box, but I can tell by Nyx's face he has made a mistake that can only be erased with a time machine.

"What did you do to me?" I demand. I inspect my leg. "It was just supposed to be a rose, you simpleton!"

Not only is the blob now a nasty black booger on my ankle, but it also is a little lower than it should have been so the rattler bites are still visible. Pissed, I wrench my ankle away and grab Nyx's gun. Before Brent can even turn to face me, I've blown a hole in his skull. I limp inside, clutching my glass. Nyx just obediently fixes a hat on his head and gets a bucket for the blood. We've been on the run ever since.

She stands in the doorway, grey hair framing her wrinkled, soft face. "You okay, love?"

I grab the large tray with beers and walk past her, pressing a kiss on her forehead. "Just the ghost of your husband trying to fuck with me."

"Whatever you say, Twinkle-Toes," she says, slapping my ass as I walk past.