She's my dirty little secret. She makes my jaw clench and my heart escalate. I go to her when I'm feeling stressed, when I feel like I need something. It's nothing tangible this need, nothing I can grasp, it's just something inside that needs 'out'… I go to her with my fears, my aggravations, my disappointments. I take everything to her.

I first went to her on a whim. I remember the day as if it was only yesterday, but it was almost five years ago. In fact it will have been five years next week. I was in a part of the city I rarely if ever traversed. It was late and I was feeling 'it'; the gnawing, the constant need. I saw the blinking sign, 'Tattoo'. The first thought that ran through my head was how someone could do that to themselves; brand their bodies like they are cattle. And then my curiosity got the better of me.

I walked in and there she was, small, dark hair, pretty if you liked the type. She smiled at me, but there was suspicion. Of course there was. She and I were of a different breed. She was covered in tattoos; a piercing here and there, while I was coming from work, and my suit, wrinkled as it was, obviously expensive; probably having cost more then she made in a week's pay.

We started to talk, she started to relax. I asked her about the tattoos, did it hurt and how time consuming was it were I to decide to get one. At that point my curiosity was on high. I was starting to like the idea of a tattoo. I never did this, things on impulse. I was the one who planned everything, always. I never just said what the fuck, why not?

Before I knew it I was on the chair and she was prepping the area. I remember taking a deep breath, so unsure of the sensation…The needles. I didn't know then what I know now. I didn't know that that first tattoo, a small origami crane, would not be my last, my only little secret.

I look now at my torso, my arms, the pictures depicted on the canvas of skin that is Michael Scofield; brother, uncle, genius, structural engineer, angel, demon, fellow inmate in for life. I look now and I wonder what I will do when the canvas is full, when there is no blank space left. Will I stop at my wrists like I promise myself? Will I be able to stop?

Already I am a curiosity to friends and family. Warm weather and I'm covered up, hot weather the same. Always long sleeves no matter the climate. You see no one knows my little secret. No one knows what lies beneath my skin…only her.

But how long can I continue to do this? How long before it's no longer enough? Maybe there's a reason I normally don't give into compulsions…

I close my eyes as the sound hits the air joining in with the muted rock music she favors. I close my eyes as the sensations race through me, as the needle pierces my flesh making the exchange…Blood for ink, pain for release...