Tattoo

I recently decided to get a tattoo. Well, after browsing a couple of websites, I finally found the right person. The artist lived in my city, in a different neighborhood. After looking at the prices and photos of his work, I decided to get a tattoo. The work was incredibly realistic, whether it was a rose on a girl's shoulder or, for example, a sleeve (a full-arm tattoo, from shoulder to wrist) on a guy. I've always been attracted to quality. So, having taken the required amount, I called the artist and headed to his place. Half an hour by bus, and I was there.

The artist's apartment amazed me. On the walls were photographs of his work that seemed alive. It was as if that snake would start writhing and hissing, or that dagger would actually start bleeding, the blood that was on its blade. I was also impressed by the artist himself, covered in an incredibly large number of drawings. First, we drank tea in his kitchen and talked. He admitted he'd done all the designs himself, which gave me even more respect for him. We then went into the room, where I chose a design for myself—a beautiful ligature of floral and technological motifs. The artist set to work, and soon everything was ready. Very pleased with the work, I paid and went home.

A week later, the tattoo had healed and taken its final form. The realism of the work clearly exceeded 100%. Everything was fine for the next couple of days. But one night, I woke up in the bathroom and was a little taken aback: in the mirror, I saw a completely different tattoo—a tangle of many sharp blades, curving at unimaginable angles. I thought, "Oh well, I'll call him in the morning and figure it out." But that morning, I was already preoccupied with another problem. I woke up in a bloody bed. My arm was completely clean, save for a few deep cuts where the edges of the blades in the design had touched my skin. I immediately recalled my thoughts from the previous day and started dialing the tattoo artist's number. But to my surprise, the operator's voice said the number was out of service. Okay, I treated my wounds, got dressed, and, without even having breakfast, went to his place. Imagine my surprise and disappointment when, after half an hour of knocking, no one answered. Even the neighbors, who had peeked out from their apartments to see my efforts, asked me not to break in, as no one had lived there for a long time. But how could they? After all, I had just been there, drinking tea in the kitchen, listening to the whirring of the machine, and feeling the pain of the needle!

Having achieved nothing, I went home. For a couple of days, I forgot about the tattoo artist, about the drawings that seemed alive. I lived my normal life. But a week ago, I woke up at three in the morning from a terrible pain in my shoulder. More blood. I went to the bathroom... and that's where I became truly scared. A terrifying-looking dagger was etched into my shoulder, one I seemed to have seen among the works of that very same artist. It pierced my skin, and where it had made contact, a large puncture wound already gaped, bleeding profusely. I broke out in a cold sweat. I hadn't expected this turn of events. Again, having quickly stopped the bleeding, I went to the hospital. The doctor, after examining my wound, said that such a wound could indeed be left by a bladed weapon. After listening to my explanation, he advised me to see a psychiatrist. He even started writing a referral. I jumped up from my chair and left. Home.

Now I live in perpetual panic. The day before yesterday, I discovered a drawing of a snake on my chest in the morning, and later that evening, this slithering creature was hissing on the floor of my bathroom. The drawing disappeared. But I began to truly fear for myself yesterday. A twisted chain of barbed wire began to appear around my neck...