By Eleni Kontou
I woke up that morning with a knot in my stomach, knowing that on that day I was doing something that many people regret and even more look down upon. All of my friends had done it, they said that it gave them a high, a rush of adrenaline. I knew that there was no turning back. I had made my decision.
When I phoned to discuss plans, I was given a time to meet and directions from the station. I left my house and walked nervously to the station. I had my earphones in with my music turned up full. My favourite album on, ‘Brand New Eyes’, by my favourite band. The punctured and broken wings of the yellow butterfly on the cover seemed apt on that day.
I arrived at the platform and wasn’t waiting long before the train screeched up. As I stepped on to the train, my stomach mimicked the movement.
During the journey I wondered what my family would think if they found out. I hoped that they wouldn’t be too disappointed. The train juddered to a halt and so did my breath. I stood up, legs shaking, and stepped off the train. I had fifteen minutes to find the building.
I followed all the directions that had been given to me and could now see the building up ahead. It was a small building and the white paint was peeling off the brick walls like dead skin. As though someone had been scratching at them. I pulled out my earphones as I neared the door, weary of my surroundings. Music was escaping through the door of the rundown building in front of me. My pulse increasing rapidly. Placing my shaking hand onto the handle in front of me, I stepped through the door into a tiny cupboard sized room with a door at the end of it. A man who was sitting on a couch on the left, stood up when I walked through the door. He was tall and had a hat on that covered his eyes. All that was visible was a dragon tattoo wrapped around his neck, as if silencing him.
“I’m here to see Kerry,” I let out in an almost whimper.
“First time here? There’s no need to be nervous. Kerry is through the back, I’ll let her know that you’ve arrived.”
I was then left alone in the small room; graffiti covered the walls and the radiator clicked as if nervously coughing. I placed myself uncomfortably on the worn couch. I could hear groaning over the music coming from the back room, unsurprisingly as though someone was in pain. My palms became sweaty. This was it.
The man returned to the room.
“Kerry is ready to see you now. Good luck, and I will no doubt see you again soon. It’s addictive.”
I stood up quickly to try to disguise how scared I was, to try to look eager. I entered the back room and saw her - sitting in the corner was Kerry. Her arms were covered in tattoos and she was sitting behind a desk. The man who was groaning was lying back in a chair with his eyes screwed shut, the corners creasing every now and again. How could anyone be addicted to this?
“Is this what you want?” She said, holding something up in the air. I moved closer to make sure.
The needle punctured my skin like the punctured wings of the butterfly. Adrenaline rushed through me.
After about an hour, the adrenaline died off. I was left with a burning sensation for another twenty minutes. Thinking of the butterfly and forming concepts of what it means in my head. I came to the conclusion that it is the fact that broken pieces can still form one big picture, as long as they stand together it is easy to see the full picture. Perhaps whatever pain we go through leaves us broken, but we use the pieces of experience that we gain from that pain and build ourselves into a new, but recognizable form. A jigsaw of pain and fragmented experience. We are constantly reshaping our minds and so maybe the butterfly is a metaphor for that change. It could also be simpler than that and mean that we aren’t able to soar because of our lack of freedom. There are always things holding us back, we as humans are pinned down to our lives and the expectations thrown on us by life. To me tattoos are a beautiful concept, one that I’ll be chained to forever.
“That’s it over. You’ve done very well, even better than me on my first time... Remember to stand up slowly, your legs might feel like jelly for a bit.”
I stood up, feeling a nervous excitement push its way through my body when my feet touched the ground. I turned slowly to face the mirror behind me.
It was perfect. On my forearm was a long-awaited dream of mine. A beautiful, yellow butterfly with punctured wings separated by a diamond pattern which enclosed the butterfly’s body.
“It’s amazing! Thank you so much! I love it!”
I understood the addiction. I decided in that moment that I would plan another one soon.
“No problem. Let me know when you’re ready and I’ll wrap it up.”
After getting my tattoo I have noticed a significant change within my confidence. I have always hated my arms, and I mean hated. I never used to show my arms in public without covering them with a hoodie, even when it was sweltering hot outside, but after getting my tattoo I have been walking around in public with a tank top on even when it’s bitterly cold outside.
I look at it and enjoy its beauty - a symbolic resonance inked on my arm. Now tattoos seem more prominent on others and I wonder of their significance - the stories they tell, the metaphor and individual that they present. People have been tattooing their skin since the beginning of time, some of the earliest tattoos were done as a religious ritual due to the drawing of blood/pain, and others were done in the belief that they increased fertility. With many more beliefs in the past that tattoos brought luck, ensured physical health, and increased attraction. It angers me that many people are discriminated against for having such a beautiful concept inked onto their skin.
Around one in five of the UK’s population has a tattoo and that statistic increases to one in three for young adults, showing that the ritual is increasing and perhaps becoming more accepted as the stigma, literally, dies out. In many cases tattoos tell someone's story by exploring individuality, they are not an indication of someone's worth or personality. It is my body, not anyone else’s. Judging someone with a tattoo is essentially judging someone for their appearance, even if it’s not a natural one. I love my tattoo and I love the meaning behind my tattoo, it’s not my problem if you’re presumptuous and judgemental.
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