His skin was an angry shade, like he’d been the most recent of Dr. Zizmor’s patients and he was shrugging his shoulders up and down, up and down, at the front of the post office line. It was only when he moved up in the line that she saw the fresh tattoo of a Bengal tiger that had involuntarily emigrated from India and was now inhabiting prime real estate on his neck.
Eventually, he felt the warmth of her stare and turned to find the source of the laser-like energy that was branding the tiger and, consequentially, his already-scarred skin. When he turned around, she realized he had been shrugging to soothe the itch from the tiger eating away at his skin. It wasn’t a chemical peel; it was worse. It was a mark that wouldn’t fade as the weeks passed and melanin returned. Rather, his decision would follow him forever, and even after that.
There was no escaping the beast. The Bengal tiger would follow him home; it had already started eating him alive.
All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 2015, Karen Wright