Tattoo
There once was a wrinkled body, covered in tattoos.
The body belonged to an old man, feared by neighbors and strangers alike, for the ink told his tale.
The tattoos, you see, served as tally, oath, and testament.
Dead sparrows littered the old man’s arm, for he had killed many men—some for money, some in self-defense, a few for the satisfaction.
There were 97 in total.
Around the sparrows swarmed butterflies, for the old man had slept with many women—some by money, some by charm, a few by force, for the thrill.
There were 173 in total.
A dragon’s head with a sword between it’s eyes adorned his chest. The old man had killed the leader of a syndicate and thereby claimed his achievements as his own.
There was only one.
On his hips and stomach, he wore a spited white crane, nestled in four white lilies. The old man had four children and a wife he adored, but to whom he could not stay loyal.
They were all dead.
On his legs and thighs he wore chains, and wrapped in the chains, frozen in agony, were the faces of four men.
They had killed the old man’s beloved.
On his back, he bore his final tattoo: a gently grazing ox. Though he still had the strength to dominate others, he had long since lost the appetite.
The old man longed only for peace.
One day, a fight broke out among two youths, who happened to be brothers.
Rushing out into the street, the old man interceded, for he knew the tempers of young men are quick to flare and quicker to act.
He did not want them to live with a terrible regret.
However, as soon as he was between them, he was struck across the back of the head and collapsed.
Lying there in the road, blood poured across the old man’s history of loss and misdeed.
With blurring sight, he looked up to see the brothers standing over him, bricks in hand.
Before the old man could say anything, they beat him to death.
An old white tiger with a spear through its heart—that’s what the brothers had tattooed on their chests to commemorate the killing of a great warrior.
Many tattoos followed after. Ω