He's got a tattoo that tells him how to get out of a maximum-security prison.
He's got markings across his body that tells him how to find clothes, cars, and watches.
He's got symbols etched into his body that tells him out to get to a boat that will sail him into the sunset.
He should feel confident that he's made it this far, that he's this strong, intelligent and crafty. He's got this entire tattoo's to confirm that about himself.
But now, sitting in this rotting shit hole, he can't help but think the tattoos on his bodies are nothing more then scars. Self inflicted, ink filled scars.
He looks down at his dark arms and his chest. They're useless now. Pointless.
Just like this life he's left with.
He strokes a hand down his arm, feeling the raised skin and the awkward bumps.
None of his can heal him now, not one expertly designed clue can fix his world now.
He's got a tattoo, and as he looks down at it, he realizes that's all it'll ever be anymore.
A tattoo that only reminded him of heartbreak.
