Forbidden Tattoo

Marguerite traced the outline along the left side of her calf. The swooping lines, the gentle curve into the back of her knee. She hadn't thought about it, really thought about it for years. But staring at the girl in front of the counter, she found her mind wandering. She stared down at the image, trying to remember why it had been so important at the time.

Life seems so simple when you're 17. She'd wanted a dragon on her calf and so she'd just gone out and had it done. Tattoo parlours in New York City rarely ask for ID on Saturday evenings. They're especially unlikely to ask when a group of young, attractive girls walks in led by a smirking raven-haired goddess.

Getting the tattoo had hurt. A lot. But Marguerite gritted her teeth and forced herself not to scream out. She swore and growled, digging her sports-car-red nails into her palm so deeply she drew blood. The tattoo artist had smiled up at her a few times. As he finished the last graceful dip of the dragon's tail he, too, had growled.

When Marguerite had finally stopped shaking long enough to stare down at her leg, she felt as though her smile would leap right off her face. She watched as the growling tattoo artist rubbed the fresh dragon with lotion. He smeared it into her achingly tender skin until the beast shone.

He gave her instructions and warned her not to pick the scabs as it healed.

"You don't want scars on it," he'd smiled.

Even now those words haunted her. Even now that sentence would stream into her brain and she could feel the sharp clenching sensation of tears burning.

When she'd arrived home that evening she'd been too drunk to notice. She'd stumbled right past her mother and into her room. Her mother had been staring out the window, bottle of vodka on the table, carton of orange juice in the trash. She was 31, tired, alone … angry.

Marguerite burst through the kitchen door. Her mother turned and let her diminishing sense of focus gently settle on her smiling daughter. She watched Marguerite slump against the door, fiddling with the lock for a few minutes before she heard the click of the lock.

And, as Marguerite tripped over her feet on her way through the kitchen and into the hallway, Rosalie saw it. The dragon leered up at her from Marguerite's calf, smoke curling around it's head, tail dipping around her daughter's knee.

For a moment, Rosalie couldn't move. She sat, staring at the air her daughter had just walked through. The leering face of that dragon bled through her brain. She thought of Jason Greer's red Chevy, fumbling fingers, laughing over drinks, the backseat of Monty's Convertible, tangled sheet, sweat on her lips, Manuel's hands on her thigh.

She was walking up the stairs before she had time to focus on them and she tripped twice. She walked into Marguerite's room and stared down at her daughter. Sprawling on the bed, lazily tracing circles of lotion into her calf.

Rosalie watched herself grab Marguerite by the hair. She kicked and screamed, fists lading in a rage onto her mother's legs. Whacking her head on the door jam as her mother yanked her down the hall and into the bathroom. Silver water tap squeak, a groan of pipes and then steam. Bleach and a wire brush.

And the screaming.

Marguerite traced the line again with her index finger. The soft bumps of the unnaturally smooth skin. Her mother had been drunk but exacting. The wire brush she'd used was sharp and dug the ender flesh up quickly. A few days later, as Marguerite had peeled back the sodden bandage for the first time, her jaw had dropped. The outline was nearly perfect.

Not too long after that Marguerite left home and was relieved to discover her luck had changed. She began singing for an angry band of skinny white boys, all flannel and torn denim. Her growling voice and angry sneer caught people's attention. Her body kept it. She had always been beautiful, but pain had made her something more. She twisted around the stage when she sang, writhing around her words, perfect figure, muscles tight and sweaty. The scar on her leg shone like a beacon of disease from her otherwise perfect form and the audience made up their own stories for how it came to be there.

Their ideas were as wild as they were wrong. As popularity grew, she thought less and less about it. The scar had become more than just a part of her body, it had become a trademark. People on the street would stop her and say, "You're that chick I saw play the other night, that scar chick."

Marguerite would smile, bare her teeth and nod. She liked being the odd one, the strange attraction no one could stay away from.

And the music was good. They played around the city, got invited into larger venues, opening up for bands they loved. A year flew by, then, two. Nearly three years later, she was sitting in a coffee shop on Avenue A. She'd just gotten back from Los Angeles, shooting the cover for their latest CD. She hadn't seen the girl walk in but as she stood in front of the counter, leaning on the cash register, smoking a cigarette and talking to a smoky eyed girl behind the counter, Marguerite's eyes wandered down.

She had heard that people had begin scarring their legs but until this moment, she hadn't really believed it.