Under My Skin by James Dawson Page A

– like the season two episode of
Satanville
where Taryn’s grandmother died and passed the Amulet of Forbidden Truths to her. She tried to draw strength from that . . . if Taryn could leave childhood behind, so could she.
    As Rosita spoke, Boris never once took his eyes off her. Sally felt the weight of his stare and shrank back. His eyes, almost feline, were the most unusual amber shade, somewhere between brown and gold.
    Rosita turned back to her. ‘Come, child, sit.’ She pulled up a simple metal chair and gestured for her to be seated. ‘Sit sideways on and lean against the big chair. Oh, and you’ll need to take off your shirt.’
    Sally had expected nothing less. With nervous fingers, she unbuttoned her plaid shirt and laid it on the dentist’s chair, which was fully reclined, before pulling her T-shirt over her head. Her mother bought all of her clothes and her bra was the plainest, most nun-like one they sold at
Lucy’s Locker
in the shopping centre. It was almost military issue and Sally was deeply embarrassed, folding her arms across her chest.
    â€˜Sit,’ Rosita prompted again, before adding, ‘you have a beautiful body, Sally . . . and the most exquisite skin.’
    Was her unease that obvious? ‘Um . . . thanks.’ Sally sat side-saddle on the chair, pulling her long braid around the front of her shoulder. She couldn’t believe Rosita thought her body beautiful – it was angular and bony, not comely like Rosita’s curves.
    â€˜Lean forward,’ Rosita instructed and Sally folded her arms on the armrest and lay her head on them.
    â€˜Will it hurt?’ She already knew the answer.
    â€˜Yes. But it’s unlike any pain you’ll have known. Do not worry, though, the soft part of the back isn’t the worst place to have done.’
    Boris snapped on a pair of the black latex gloves.
    â€˜OK.’ If her dad ever found out she’d be
dead
. Her mouth was desert dry. What was the worst he could do? Throw her onto the streets? She was leaving for university next year anyway and then she could be as tattooed as she liked. In fact, she cherished the idea of starting afresh in a new town with a new identity she’d curate for herself. She’d be the cool girl with the awesome tattoo.
Just do it
.
    Wordlessly, Boris sat on a wheelie stool and pulled himself close behind her. She smelled alcohol disinfectant about a second before she felt the icy cold stuff being smeared over her skin on a cotton-wool ball. He grunted at Rosita.
    â€˜Are you ready?’ she translated.
    Sally nodded, feeling far from sure. Once that needle touched her skin she was past the point of no return. Whatever happened, there was no way she was leaving this room with a half-finished squiggle. That would only prove to the rest of the world that she was weak. She wasn’t weak, she was quiet. There’s a difference.
    With gloved fingers, Boris turned a dial on what looked like a voltage box. The meter jumped and the needle started up, buzzing like an angry bee. And then it stung. She wasn’t ready for it. The pain shot up and down her spine like a bolt of lightning. Boris held her still with a bear paw. He kept going. Why it came as a surprise that it felt like there were needles burrowing into her skin was beyond her, but that was exactly what it felt like. He
dragged
the thing across her flesh.
    She bit her lip to stop herself screaming. She screwed her eyes shut, blinking back tears.
    Only then it changed. It was as if the pain drilled down into her bones. It was no longer a sharp, stabbing agony, but more of an ache. It was warm and it was manageable. Sally breathed again. She imagined a pink tide, the warmth spreading in waves from the base of her spine, washing across her torso and down her legs.
    It hurt, but it hurt in the way a massage hurts. It was excruciating and blissful at the same time. A cocktail of pleasure and pain.
    The wave