#46
His shaved head and bright blue eyes stood out in the crowd. She saw him coming, repressed the urge to angle her steps away, or to bolt, and watched. His arm was bandaged, wrapped tight in gauze and once-white tape. A dark patch in the center had grown brown and she knew if he pulled that bandage loose, skin and dried blood would accompany it.
She drew her gaze up, but did not meet his. Instead she concentrated on something dangling from a chain about his neck. It was oddly shaped, like a leaf, and it had little weight. As he walked, it lifted into the air and seemed to flutter back to his chest, only to lift again.
He was close. She knew she’d have to bolt or meet those eyes. He stopped directly in front of her and dared her gaze to lift. Instead, bolder than she felt, she leaned in close to inspect the pendant.
It was thin, like parchment. On the surface in dark ink was a dragon. Through the center of this is a sword. Above the dragon, in a semi-circle, she saw words.
“Death before dishonor”
She glanced up into his snake eyes and was caught. She stood, unable to run, trying to make her lips form an explanation, or a question, but barely able to breathe.
“I got a tattoo once,” he said. “I was unique. It was a statement of my individuality.”
She breathed a little deeper. His voice wasn’t threatening, or loud. He almost whispered.
“Can I see it?”
He continued as if she hadn’t spoken. His eyes pierced her and squirmed around inside her head as she heard, and tried not to hear, his words.
“Everyone thought the tattoo was cool. Then another guy got one, and another. I swam in an ocean of tattoos, and I was lost.”
She repeated her question, still a whisper.
“Can I see it?”
“You already have. I’m told some men wear their heart on their shoulder. I wear my individuality on a chain.”
Her hand came to her lips unbidden. If her legs hadn’t been made of rubber and cemented to the Earth, she would have backed away, and away, and turned and run, but she didn’t. Instead, she reached out and brushed her fingertip over the dragon. For the first time, she smelled the soiled bandage on his arm, ripe and pungent. She gripped the dragon gently and met his gaze.
“You are the only one?”
He nods.
“It only hurts,” he says, “when I dream.”
Written by David Wilson - Visit WebsiteFollow me on Twitter
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Letting it sink in. Most strange. It is difficult to maintain individuality in this society. As soon as something is done there are 1000 imitators. Look at Hot Topic. A whole store selling items to kids trying to look "different". I don't think this man will have many actual imitators however, but next his followers will make fake skin tattoo pendents. Then what will he do?
Yes, he's set himself up…but he's left himself a bleeding (and probably infected) wound…thus, the symbolism (to me) is that the minute you give up that pain…that willingness to strive to be different, you open yourself to the world of imitators…