Kara Hoffman's tattoo - SHORT STORY

AU where everyone is born with their soulmate's last words tattooed on their skin.

TW: death, scars, drugs.

The electrified door makes a buzzing sound.

"Get her in."

Kara’s hands are cuffed behind her back, but two officers hold her by the arms anyway.

It’s a beautiful morning. Or, at least, Kara assumes it is. The air coming from the window is crisp and cool, and makes the edges of her orange uniform flutter. The grey room looks a little less grey and a little yellower.

When she sits down, her hands get tied in front of her.

The man sitting across the table wears a black tie and a dark suit and has his hair combed back and smells like aftershave. He’s forty-two. Married. He clears his throat.

"Broken ribs. A chipped tooth. Blood from her ears."He’s reading from papers, but Kara can almost taste it. "You realize, " he says, putting down the sheets, and looking at her dead in the eye, "that this way you will never get out of here?"

Kara says nothing but moves her hands. The cuffs tingle, an officer behind her back slightly moves, looking at her. She’s not going to do anything, but, somehow, everyone is always scared when she’s in the room.

"Ms Hoffman, you need to stop. The director says you formed some sort of …" the lawyers hands move in the air, like he was trying to grab something,"… gang."

Again, Kara says nothing. She’s proud of the little burn she has under her right eye, like all the members there. Twenty-seven girls and women of all shapes and ages and colors and crimes with a burn under the eye.

She teaches them life every Thursday when they get to spend an hour outside, in the sun. She sits on her bench, the one only her can occupy, and preaches, a cigarette in a hand, a blade in the other, hidden in her palm. The eyes of the women and girls are big, shaded by something they will never say. Their skin is ruined, and was ruined far before the burn. Kara marks them herself. Some cry. Some shiver. Some stay silent. Her lieutenants looked at them without flinching.

There’s women with tattoos that say Stop, please, Who are you?, Why are you doing this?. Her lieutenants’ skin reads It’s not my fault and I did love you.

The lawyer doesn’t look tired. Kara thinks he’ll just go back to his wife and kids and watch a funny TV show in his underpants and drink beer and fall asleep in his home. She breathes in deeply and her cuffs tingle again. She spreads her legs a bit and makes herself comfortable. She knows it’s going to take long.

The only person who ever asked her how she got in prison will speak only with vocals and eat yogurt for the rest of their life. Her name is Joy and she is twenty-seven. She’s got a burn under her right eye but hardly ever looks at Kara when she’s speaking to them. She’s reliable because she never spreads secrets. Her tattoo says Don’t worry, and Kara found out her soulmate has already died, in a car accident he had caused.

Truth is hardly ever beautiful, or aesthetically pleasing. Pale skin looks sick, not elegant. Tears are messy and sticky. Blood stinks on your clothes.

The officers take her back to her cell after two hours of silence in front of her lawyer.

Today, one of the last things he told her, frowning, with his eyes wide, was: "Do you want to stay here forever?"

The door of her cell closes with a buzz. The cell is grey, and Marla, her roommate, is lying on her bed. Marla is sharp and tough, has incredible resistance in fighting and the look on her face before she punched Kara’s face a year ago was insane. Marla’s skin is cut and bruised and burned, and on her arm her tattoo says I did love you. She never speaks to anyone.

Kara lies down, too.

It was an ugly mistake.

I say mistake because Kara didn’t mean to, and ugly because it looked absolutely terrifying.

Her skin reads “I can’t breathe”, but after that night half of the letters are gone, burned or cut or scratched.

His name was Al.

He was kind and happy and had nothing to do with the bad places Kara had been to, and while she had been drinking too much and smoking every Sunday at dawn, he was clean. Clean like screaming it to god, kneeling in front of them. Clean like cotton, if you like. Clean like a sharp needle that glitters in the dark, reflecting the moonlight. Al was gentle, fiercely young, that kind of young boy who laughs too loud and eats too much and loves things he shouldn’t.

He did things to win bets and lost money and passed his hands in his hair and smiled at whoever went to talk to him.

Kara, nevertheless, never did.

A year and a half before, he had just started dating some older guy and her dreams had faded away completely.

Later that day, Kara was invited at a party.

The school had already found pot and some other things they shouldn’t have found in her bag, and Kara was grounded, but she felt like she was in charge of her own life and other things you think when you’re seventeen and it’s the oldest you’ve ever been.

She went to the party to drink enough to be someone else. Her friends danced with her and she kissed someone who tasted bitter.

Then, she got out of the house to sit alone and smoke, again. The party was loud and bright and she wanted to sleep.

Kara heard a thin voice call her, and turned. Cold grass creaked under his shoes. His smile was small but warm. His eyes glowed big as he sat next to her.

Her heart was the stadium during a Metallica show.

His hands were lean and white on his jeans and his curls were ruffled. His skin was sweaty, but he was wearing a jacket.

"Are you okay?"

Al had nodded, then, turned to her. "They sent me to you."

"For what?"

He had swallowed, his eyes jumping from one of hers to the other. He smelled of some soap and alcohol, no perfume. His collarbone was showing, wet, under his thin shirt.

"I need something. Do you have any?"

She had blinked, opened her mouth to reply, but he had stood up. "If you don’t have it, that’s okay."

Kara had produced one pill. That was all she had, and it was supposed to be for her. "Have you ever taken one?"

He had looked at it and nodded.

"Are you sure?"

Al had nodded again.

"Don’t take it if you’re going to be alone."

He had put folded money in her open palm and gulped it. His Adam’s apple had moved up and down.

Then, Al had disappeared. She had felt so stupidly happy. The party was feeling brighter and warmer, her friends had started to hug each other and tell stupid things out of the high, everyone was smoking, and the whole house had started to look like a sauna or something. She didn’t know if she could say that she knew him, but they had talked. They had had a conversation. And that was certainly something to start from, even to build a friendship.

Then, a low yell. Another.

Al’s name was repeated a dozen times, and she had walked through the curtain of smoke until she had found him.

Kara had knelt, her vision blurry. The alcohol and the pot were singing in her veins. Al’s eyes were red, his lips were parted, the vein’s on his neck evident and pulsing. A good-looking girl was crying next to him, his boyfriend was holding his face in his hands.

She had tried to call the ambulance and had failed four times.

“I can’t breathe.”

Kara had frozen. Her heart was the stadium after a Metallica show.

Al’s boyfriend was a slender, tall boy with pale skin and a look in his eyes that sent shivers down Kara’s back. It had been a pleasure so great to him to accuse her in court that he was trembling and could hardly speak at the end. Al’s friends had smiled at him and some of them had cried.

One word.

The judge had asked him to swear on the Bible. He had. The attorney had asked him if he had seen Kara Hoffman give the pill to his boyfriend.

One word.

One word later she was on a small bus, handcuffed, an officer sitting next to her looking straight in front of himself.

Her heart was the airport where a plane had crushed its landing.

Prompt by @authorinmyhead on Instagram, originally by aceofultron on Tumblr.

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