I blinked dumbly at the tattoo artist before me, unable to process his words. His face is passive, tan and smooth despite his age. Carefully arranged into a blank expression. But there’s a twitch in his temple that lets me know he’s telling the truth. Or at least he believes he is. I stumble backwards.
“This isn’t possible,” I say. My back is up against the wall now. The cool white brick presses through my shirt, and it should be calming but it only anchors me to this nightmare.
The tattooist smiles wanly. “I assure you, it is very possible.” He shuffles over to the cash register and begins hauling sketchbooks from beneath it. Most are well-loved dollar store books, pages worn with age and spines bloated with clippings. But at the very bottom, tucked on its side against the edge of the shelf, is a thin notebook, so solidly black it seems to warp the light around it.
“We may not be the only tattooist Brisbane has,” the artist says. “But we are the only ones who’ve achieved the impossible.”
A manic bubble of laughter escapes me. I look around for the exit, but the flickering neon lights that once marked the doors have been extinguished, replaced only by a thin sliver of light from the cash register. I can’t see more than ten feet in front of me. The register, the tattooist, and a plush red ottoman. The rest of the room is shrouded in darkness, so thick I don’t want to venture into it for fear of being engulfed.
“I thought you were a realism tattoo artist,” I say. Getting inked was the whole reason I’d stepped foot into this odd little shop in the first place. I had seen his impressive portfolio online and decided he would be the perfect artist to ink the cat tattoo I had dreamed about for years. But today, I seemed to be getting much more than I had expected.
“It is realism in a sense,” the tattooist replies. “We just take realism very seriously here.”