Tattoo

by Paul E. Cooley

  Jackson said nothing. His bladder let go, hot urine streaming down his bare legs, the patter of droplets against the concrete floor lost in the dwindling maelstrom of music. "You--" Jackson muttered. "I want to go home," Jackson moaned. "Want to go home."

  He expected the thing to laugh, to cackle, throw its head back for effect. Instead, Pons stood there and cocked his head to one side. "You might be able to go home, Mr. Jackson." Jackson still couldn't see the entire body, and he was thankful for that. The idea of seeing the scarred and blackened flesh that Nigel had described made another streak of urine jet from his penis. "But you're going to have to give back what is mine."

  Jackson sobbed, tears streaming from his eyes. "You're going to take the phoenix," Jackson whimpered.

  Pons said nothing. He turned from Jackson and walked behind him. Jackson screamed. The sound broke across the room, echoing and reverberating; a terrified shriek without intelligence or coherence. As the oxygen in his lungs finally depleted, the scream fell to a low whisper. Jackson sobbed silently, listening to Pons' footsteps on the concrete.

  Another light came on from behind Jackson. Jackson closed his eyes, rocking against the chair's restraints, not even noticing the pinching and biting of the plastic zip strips against his already raw flesh.

  "No," he moaned. "Wanna go home. Just wanna go home."

  The touch of a scaly hand to his right shoulder jerked a scream from his throat. "Soon," Pons said from behind him. There was a pause. "Keep your eyes closed," the voice said. "It'll be better this way."

  Jackson loosed another sob, his tears dripping from his nose to join the fresh urine in the seat of his chair. The footsteps moved away again. He heard the sound of metal clinking together. Liquid gurgling and splashing out from a bottle.

  "Just a few minutes, Mr. Jackson," the voice said. "It'll all be over then, I promise."

  Jackson clenched his eyes shut as hard as he could, white stars twinkled in and out of existence in the darkness behind his eyelids. Pons was passing him again, moving behind him. He could feel the man's hot breath against his naked skin. Heart hammering in his chest, he barely heard Pons say, "Hold tight, Mr. Jackson."

  Fire. A shriek of pain from his already wounded shoulder blade. The burning started as a single pinprick and slowly traveled around in a wide oval. Jackson tried to scream, but couldn't catch his breath against the fire in his nerves. In his mind's eye, he watched as a bloody hole was carved through his flesh, the point of a rusted scalpel twisting and turning as it traced the edge of the phoenix design.

  "This is not optimal," the voice said from behind him. Jackson barely understood the words. "I would have liked for it to heal a little more first."

  The sharp instrument cutting his flesh went deeper and clunked against bone. The fire in his shoulder blade spread down his spine.

  "Oops," the voice said from behind him, "sorry about that."

  Jackson finally found breath and screamed. His voice broke against the sound, a new burning sensation to join the other tortured nerves.

  "Almost there, Mr. Jackson," Pons said softly.

  The scream was no longer a single sound, but fractured with gaps where his voice box was unable to continue producing the tone. The lingering syllables of his own scream were drowned out by the trip-hammer beating of his heart.

  Without warning, the bright pain ceased. "Take a breath, Mr. Jackson," Pons said. Jackson could no longer make sound. His voice was completely gone, leaving only a harsh whisper of air. "Deep breath, and then exhale when you feel it." Jackson tried to take a deep breath and couldn't. He heard the sound of flesh peeling from bone and muscle and a new tsunami of screaming pain filled his nerves.

  Jackson blacked out.

  Chapter 14

  "I'm sorry there wasn't time for anesthesia," Pons' voice said, breaking through the blackness. The voice was soft, distant. "I'm afraid you drank too much. Was afraid it would kill you," Pons said.

  As Jackson opened his eyes, he took in a shuddering breath. His shoulder howled with pain like a dog with its tail slammed in a door.

  "The pain will pass." Pons sat facing him a few feet away with a small table between them. The table held a bottle of clear solution, a gleaming piece of metal that looked like a pair of misshapen tweezers and strip of leather upon which metal hooks sat.

  Jackson looked up from the table to Pons. The man was no longer covered in shadow, no longer back lit. Instead, he was fully covered in light.

  The pain in Jackson's back became a distant memory as he tried once more to scream.

  Pon's chest was a ruined landscape of blackened, melted meat. In between the mounds and valleys of charred skin, islands of smooth, clear designs lay against the flesh. A Celtic sphere. A celtic rune, the lines crossing and converging. The background of each patch was a different shade. More continued down his legs in the same way, designs of beauty landlocked in a sea of horror. Jackson looked up at Pons' face. It was sad, distant. "You know why," Pons said.

  An irregularly shaped piece of flesh sat in Pon's lap. Jackson stared at it, but couldn't focus on it. His eyes instead found the edge of a dragon's tail curling upward from the man's waist and just below where his belly button should have been. The smooth flesh was dark, a perfect contrast against the whitened, scarred edges.

  "Nigel should never have given you that tattoo, Mr. Jackson." Pons shook his bald head, the light glancing off a sheen of sweat. "It wasn't fair to you, and certainly not to me." Pons dropped his head for a moment, and then raised it, a single tear crawling down his face. "I worked so hard on that with him. I never dreamed he'd do this to me." Pons wiped away the tear with a scarred and scaled hand. "But it's done," he said.

  The pain in Jackson's shoulder blade knocked on the door of his conscious mind again. The adrenaline running through his veins tried to keep it at bay. His heart had increased its rhythm again, every sound in the room accompanied by its relentless drumbeat. Pons laid the strip of flesh upon the table, uncovering his crotch.

  Jackson leaned to the side of the chair and vomited on the concrete floor. The dragon tattoo, its edges stitched in black, was sewn to Pons' penis and scrotum. Jackson vomited again.

  "I'm sorry," Pons said softly. "I know it's difficult for you to understand."

  Jackson leaned back in the chair, his vision wavering. The nerve endings of his tortured skin had begun their shrieking chorus again.

  "But I have to become whole again," Pons said, his eyes flicking up to Jackson's. Pons dropped his eyes back to the small table, poured a few drops of the clear liquid on the back of Jackson's excised skin. He smeared it, delicately working it into the raw, red flesh. Pons picked it up and turned it over, staring into the design. "I have to become whole."

  "Can't--" Jackson said. "Can't become--"

  "Yes, I can," Pons said without looking up. He carefully moved the piece of flesh against the left half of his chest, just above the nipple. He pressed against the edges, holding his fingers for a few beats before moving around to the sides and bottom. He let his hand go and stared down. The flesh didn't move. Pons smiled. "There are ways," he said in that calm voice.

  Leaning forward, Pons picked up a rectangular piece of plastic and dragged a thick filament from its edge. He held the filament in his left hand, bringing up a small, curved bow of steel in his right. He dragged the filament through the end of the steel hook and expertly knotted it. He held it up to the light and examined it.

  "The others," he said softly, "didn't understand either. I didn't mean for them to die, but they left me little choice. I would have used anesthesia, but I didn't know what I was doing then."

  Pons gripped the metal tweezers in his right hand, affixing the metal bow in its teeth. "But I know better now." He dragged the tweezers toward the top of the phoenix tattoo.

  Just staring into the flaming, burning bird brought the screams of pain to an almost intolerable peak. Jackson felt air puffing from his lungs past his throat, but no sound came out.


  Pons slowly wove the hook through his own scarred flesh, wincing as the filament sutured the tattoo to his skin. Blood seeped from the punctures dripping down over the phoenix, turning it a deeper shade of crimson. The bird seemed ready to explode as rivulets flowed from the top of it down Pons' chest.

  Pons shook as he pulled the thread through himself, a finger holding the tattoo in place to make sure the flesh was tight against his own. Pons made a sound between a sigh of pleasure and a hiss of pain.

  The man was wearing him now, wearing Jackson's skin. The tattoo. The frozen fear in Jackson's balls traveled up his spine.

  "You-- You savaged me," Jackson croaked.

  "I'm sorry, Mr. Jackson," Pons said, not taking his eyes from finishing the last suture. "I really am. If there was any other way to do it..."

  "You-- You are fucking crazy," Jackson moaned softly. "I'm fucking dying here."

  Pons shook his head, a bead of sweat falling from his nose to the table. "No, you're not, Mr. Jackson. I injected you with antibiotics, and I cleaned the wound. I have patched you up the best I know how, and believe me, I've practiced this a lot," Pons said. "Ah," he moaned, pulling on the suture once more. The rest of the thread tightened. He carefully turned the tweezers, creating a knot, and then pulled it together with his free fingers. The end of the suture trailed out of the top of the tattoo. Pons inspected it and grinned. "Yes, that'll do," he said. He clipped each end of the suture, breaking the thread. His fingers came away bloody, smearing blood across the phoenix's colored body.

  He placed the instruments on the table and looked at Jackson. "My phoenix," he whispered. "Mine, not yours. I need to be whole again."

  Jackson sobbed. "I just want to go home. Just want to go home."

  Pons smiled. "Yes, of course. I know where you live, Mr. Jackson. After I found you in Nigel's portfolio, you were easy to Google." Pons picked up a tube of salve from the table. He squirted it liberally in his right hand and rubbed it carefully into his newest tattoo. "You have to keep it moist," he said, "so it heals. Not really sure I'm going to be able to keep this one for long," Pons said with a sigh. "I should have let you heal longer. But I just couldn't wait."

  He stood, towering over Jackson. The sad smile on his face began to fade. "You are a journalist, Mr. Jackson." Pons paused, bending over to place the tube back on the table. His flayed, raw shoulders were just visible. No tattoos there. "You are a journalist," Pons repeated. "You must know that's one of the reasons I have to keep you alive." Pons grabbed the hunting knife from the table, and held it in front of Jackson's face.

  Jackson shuddered, turning his face away from the grim, steely blade. Pons held it before him for a moment, his expression flat, neutral. "You're going to write about me. You're going to make sure they understand these are mine. You are the last one of his creations." Pons put the knife just beneath Jackson's eye. "You're going to make sure Nigel knows he can't use me anymore." The knife tip dug into the skin. The press of its tip was a pinprick, nothing more than a pinch. "Do you understand?"

  "Yes, yes, yes!" Jackson breathed in a broken whisper.

  The knifepoint retreated. Pons bent down on one knee and held his hand to Jackson's chin. He turned Jackson so they looked into one another's eyes. The sad smile returned to Pons' face. "I hurt you, and I'm sorry for that." Pons leaned forward and kissed Jackson's cheek, his soft lips brushing against stubble. He bent down and slit the zip strips that clamped Jackson's feet to the chair. Pons looked back into his eyes. "You will tell them."

  Jackson nodded. "I will," Jackson said, a single tear running down his cheek.

  Pons stood and walked behind Jackson. "I'm holding a knife, Mr. Jackson. And I don't want to kill you. So after I snip these restraints, I want you to hold still." Pons paused, the knife pressed into the small of Jackson's back. "Do you understand?" Jackson nodded again. Pons said nothing in return. Jackson felt pressure against his wrists, and then the biting of the plastic released. "Remember," Pons whispered into his ear, "I don't want to kill you."

  The numbness in his hands and feet left rapidly, but hurt like hell. Once the blood flow had returned, the nerves began their screams of protest all over again. Jackson moaned and shuddered as the pain wracked his body. With his eyes closed, focused on the pain rocking through him, he barely noticed Pons dressing and the sound of the door closing behind him.

  Chapter 15

  The slate sky smelled of rain. October had given way to November, leaving the trees with naked, skeletal branches. The occasional errant warm day was nowhere to be found, but Jackson didn't mind.

  With his coat wrapped around him, he walked from the offices down to the Cuban bistro. He was proud of himself--he didn't look over his shoulder once.

  When he entered the warm restaurant, he spied Tony near the window, a cup of coffee held between his hands. He smiled when he saw Jackson. Without a word, Jackson sat down at the table, removing his coat with care. He and Tony traded stares for a moment, and then Jackson returned the smile. "How you doing, Tony?"

  Tony shrugged. "Best as expected." Tony took a sip of the coffee and placed it back between his hands. "You didn't come to the office last week," Tony said.

  Jackson's smile disappeared. "No. Last skin graft was...tricky. I didn't feel like going anywhere for a while. Sorry I didn't call."

  "No problem," Tony said. He moved the coffee cup aside and toyed with the spoon. "You know, I would like to hear from you every now and then, you asshole."

  Chuckling, Jackson raised a finger. He caught the eye of the dark- skinned waitress. She nodded to him and smiled. He turned back toward Tony. "I love this place," Jackson said, rubbing his hands together.

  Tony nodded. "Of course you do. You, Dewie and I have been coming here way too damned long."

  Jackson moved his fingers across the table in circles. "So. What do you know?"

  "Exactly what I was going to ask you, man."

  The waitress brought another cup of coffee, placing it in front of Jackson along with a dish of cream. "For you, Señor. Are you ready to order?"

  "Usual," Jackson said smiling at her.

  "Same," Tony said.

  She placed her hand on Jackson's shoulder and then left the two behind.

  Tony clucked his tongue. "Nightmares?"

  Jackson shrugged. "The usual. I finally stopped pissing my bed," he mumbled, taking a long sip of the coffee. This had become routine over the last several weeks. He didn't want to tell Tony, but Jackson had begun to feel as though their weekly sessions were bringing it back in too much detail. Way too much detail.

  Nodding, Tony took another sip of coffee. "How's work?"

  "Back at it," Jackson said with a frown. "I still don't know what to say. About Pons, I mean."

  Hissing through his teeth, Tony held up his hands. "I still don't know if that's a good idea. To say anything, I mean."

  The reporter took another sip from his mug, frowned, and then added some cream. He stirred it carefully, making sure not to drip over the sides of the white ceramic mug. "You have any idea how many requests I've gotten to write a fucking book?"

  Tony laughed. "Yeah, I can imagine."

  "No," Jackson said, "I don't think you can."

  Tony dropped his eyes to the table. Jackson didn't understand why he felt angry. This was Tony, dammit. But he was treating Jackson like a fucking patient.

  "I need you to do something for me," Jackson said softly.

  Tony looked up, a sad smile on his face. "Anything I can, J."

  "I need you to tell me that he's done. That there aren't going to be any more."

  Tony blinked. "You know I can't--"

  "Just fucking say it, Tony. I just need to hear it," Jackson said in a stern voice.

  Rolling his eyes, Tony raised his hands again to chest level, palms facing Jackson. "Okay. Okay," Tony said. He allowed his hands back to the table, and stared into Jackson's eyes. "From what you said, I think he's done. I don't think there will be any more." Tony paused for a mom
ent, his face grim. "Unless Nigel starts inking Pons' designs again."

  Jackson tittered. "Don't think he'll make that mistake again."

  "You've spoken with him?"

  "Yeah," Jackson said with a sigh. "Little fucker's scared out of his wits. Said he's got a security guard in the store at all times now."

  Tony clucked his tongue again. "You know, it may not be over, Jackson."

  "What do you mean?" he replied, his cup of coffee halfway to his lips.

  "Pons may find that he can't stop."

  Jackson put down the cup of coffee. "I don't under--"

  "The compulsion," Tony said, "to 'become whole again.' It may not disappear just because he has his designs back."

  Jackson shuddered. "But it's over for me."

  Tony smiled. "Yeah, it is."

  Chapter 16

  After lunch with Tony, Jackson made his way back to the car. He wove through the traffic as fast as he could. Raindrops fell from the sky, pattering and chattering against the windshield, providing rhythm to the music of the roaring engine. All during lunch, he'd looked at his watch. He didn't want to be late. Not for this.

  Finally, he reached his destination. He cursed as he parallel parked the car, fighting to fit the coupe in the tight space. It was a sloppy job at best, but he barely noticed.

  Spring in his step, Jackson entered the shop.

  Nigel was waiting for him.

  Author's Note

  Body modification is a phenomenon that is becoming more and more common. Whether via piercings, brands, scarring, or tattoos, people seem to be lining up in droves to have their bodies augmented. Where I live, tattoo studios seem to be popping up like rabbits after someone has replaced bird song with Barry White.