CW for tattoos, needles, blood, war violence.
The tattoo studio is just around the corner from John's flat: a small, clean place; the walls covered in flash art, a riotous forest of thorn-wrapped hearts and sharp-winged butterflies; counters filled with small vials of color, lined up like specimen bottles; stacks of sterilized needles, an autoclave. The itching desire seeped into his skin after he was invalided home, trapped in the endless, dull beige pattern of sleep / wake / eat / breathe / sleep.
On your right shoulder, yeah?
Yes.
He pulls his jumper and collared shirt up and off, baring his thin, white vest, fraying at the seams; then settles in the chair, clenching his trembling fist against the arm. First comes the cold swipe of antiseptic, tingling his skin as it cools; next, the blue guidelines laid onto his flesh like bright veins, snake / rod / leaves / crown / ready for inking. The first needle, the outliner, buzzes ink mere millimeters into his body. The tip burns with silver fire, like sharp glass piercing his skin, and he gasps slightly, opening his mouth for the new, fresh pain.
John's vision spikes with light as the tattoo artist etches the emblem into him, stopping every now and then to start a new curve, to wipe away the constant stream of blood. As the pain spirals through him, wrapping around him in a double helix, his fist unclenches, collapses against the arm of the chair as if broken. His breath is shallow, skimming the surface of his lungs as the second, wider needle comes, filling in the hard lines with soft, painful shadows.
With every swirling slice of ink, the exquisite, aching tendrils shoot deeper into his skin, touch his nerves, spark his memories: the shocking split of gun fire, rending his body in two; his own blood in the gritty grass; the crack of his voice calling out for God; the fever that burned his body for days; and all though it, the violent thrum of his heart, red and wet and throbbing with life.
When he closes his eyes, listening for that vibrant heartbeat, all he hears is the buzz of the needle, a solid flatline of sound in the empty studio. It is only then—his body bloody, his skin scarred, his heart stifled and still—that John finally, finally begins to cry.
AN: This fic is inspired by MarieLikesToDraw's beautiful tattooed!John art, The Army Doctor. The title references a line in Johnny Cash's "Hurt" (a cover of Nine Inch Nails' original). Thanks to you for reading; comments are always welcome.