Tattoos

A tattoo is only skin deep

I sit at my usual table at Starbucks typing on my black Dell laptop pretending to do some assignment for some class that I couldn't give a damn less about. But then again, why should I care? I’m flawlessly perfect, have all A’s, and can get a guy around my finger in a heart beat.  I observe the people fluctuating in and out of the small coffee shop, the smell of coffee is quite different from the splintering scent of hard liquors that I’m custom to; many men come and go but none with what I need. How come they don't have what I need? It's not hard to find! Ugh! I roll my eyes at my phone as if getting an annoying text when in reality I was rolling my eyes at the lack of men containing what my heart requires. 

"Muggle." I mutter beneath my breath, at these men. Who say's someone who's perfect can't have an inner nerd. I casually toss my crimson colored hair over my shoulder eyeing the room. 

This is too difficult, they're just men. Sure some seem kind and innocent, but everyone has a dark side. Everyone.  

A juggling match that played on in my mind. I had to remember exactly how my father looked to find the exact one I want. There's a common fact that says girls tend to be drawn to men that resemble their fathers, for me, this fact is true. A part of me wants the memories of my father to disappear, but that's the problem with horrid childhood memories, they're the hardest to forget. 

The first one is of average height with jet black hair pointing toward the stars, tattoos cover his forearms but nothing more, he's also quite fit. He is thin but has a defined face with high cheek bones that model agencies would adore, shadow dark brown eyes that shine correctly no matter what light he's under. But he speaks as if he was raised here his whole life with a wealthy education and full wallet, my father would’ve never acted like that; then again my father never had money. His skin is dark, middle eastern I assume. He smiles maturely as he orders an english muffin, scrambled egg sandwich with a chai tea latte, could this guy get anymore fancy? The other girls at the shop have been eyeing him but not in the way I am. Oh no, the boy I pick will be much different than the one they commonly want. 

The next one I was considering had a buzzcut. Not my favorite but it's all right. His small tattoos on the backside of his forearms made up for it. Plump lips that pouted even more as he concentrated on the iPad in front of him. Lighter skin and eyes than the previous boy, chestnut eyes that looked similar to melted chocolate in a Ghirardelli truffle commercial, skin a shade a smidge too dark, for the winter but light enough that you could tell he was from this area. I'm unsure of how he speaks but I'll sure find out when I'm done with him. That is, if I choose him as the one I want.

I felt a smirk grow on my face as I turn to my third option, short but cute. A baby face yet stubble upon his jawline and chin, fluffy brown hair that was a long mess on top of his head. Tattoos ran up from his forearms to his right bicep, a couple more miniature ones on the opposite arms, also lining his chest below his collarbones. A loud, high pitched voice that fit right with the puzzle piece of his insane personality as he joked with every barista he talked to while getting his drink. Eyes of a blue that was similar to the dark blue fabric of the baby blanket that my grandmother had made for me, I cherished it until my father used it to wipe his vomit off the bathroom floor after a night of drinking,  and skin of pale white yet his arms were tan. 

My fourth and final option was a tall thin boy, curly hair whipped across his face like every other boy in America. Green eyes that pierced the girl behind the counter's as she quickly became flustered when he thanked her for his drink, tattoos covered his upper left bicep, and two on his upper chest, also a small one on his right bicep, including many tiny ones on his left wrist. The palest skin out of all my options and his voice rang in a tone too deep for his young appearance. 

I had finally come to my decision, I grinned before slowly standing and making my way over to the small, high pitched voiced boy. 

“Hello..” I said lustfully as I stood beside him so close that I felt the tip of the sleeve of his t-shirt rest against my skin. 

"Well hello there!! I'm Blake! Blake Tharskin!" He chirped similar to a cheerful little bird resting upon a tree branch. They're always this excited at first. 

I laughed, and he probably assumed that I was laughing at his forward personality but I was laughing sickly at how excited this boy was to see me, how wonderful. “I’m Samantha Lapowsky.” I slightly pouted my lips moving closer to him. 

"How about we go for a walk in the park?" I questioned resting a hand on his tattooed forearm, tracing circles with my thumb over the ink adoringly.

"Alrighty then!" It's always that easy. We exited the shop and went on our innocent little walk. He sheepishly slipped his hand into mine. 

“You look beautiful today Samantha.” I giggled childishly pulling a strand of dyed, red hair behind my ear. 

“Thank you Blake, um..I-I know this nice spot by the lake over there, just through the wooded part and it’s right out on the other side.” I looked down trying to hide a blush. 

“Lovely..” I looked up at his voice to see if he was kidding but he most certainly wasn’t. With that, found out way into the brush. 

A week later I'm curled up at home holding a cup of tea in my hands and a fleece blanket resting against my knees. I start to think over my father, the repulsive man that smelt of pungent alcohol, a smell so deep into his skin that it ripped through his tattoos right to the bone. And a farmers tan that made his arms dirty brown, while the rest of his body remained a ghostly white; unlike the other men of the coffee shop that I saw the week before, they were all too tan. A human so disgusting and I had the honor of taking him from this beautiful planet. Ha, I’m still flattered by my own handy work and ability to not get caught.  

I remembered the way his body looked, crumbled over the kitchen table with a trickle of blood drizzling from his parted, slightly purpling lips. Blake looked the same, I had made sure of that. 

I turn on the news to find a breaking report on the television, "The body of the missing teenager Blake Tharkskin was found in a park only 6 blocks from his small house in Gapersville." I smirked, watching as a picture of Blake that looked to be from a school yearbook flashed onto the screen. 

Soon enough they showed his body lying against the damp soil of the park brush, on his back, his head snapped to the side so far that you could see the little tear of skin in the exposed part of his neck. The rest of his limbs lay quiet. His lips, blue, with contouring crimson crusted onto his cheek and chin from drying overnight. And lastly, his tattoos. I was careful to keep them clean. The black ink reflected off the sun nicely, his pale skin making the colorless tattoos vibrant as he laid there coldly on the grass, beautifully dead. 

I finished my cup and flicked off the TV and stood up getting myself ready for bed, thinking to myself, "Samantha Lapowsky, who's your next victim?" 

Reviews

[Marie]

This is pretty good, and well written. Your descriptions are lively. I think you could have tied the tattoos of Samantha's victim in more with her dead father.