Trembling With Fear 10/25/20

Permanent Fear by Josh King

I write this while in a profusion of pain. My arm is in pieces, and I fear the knife has not rid me of the horrors that dwelled upon it in permanent ink. I hear the being talking in my mind, creeping through the fluid in my brain as if it were a creature crawling on the deep ocean floor. I think it wanted to be cut off, so it could live in me forever, without form.

I must explain why I self-mutilated. It will make sense soon.

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I have always battled with depression. I live with many fears and tried every medication. I knew if I were to overcome this fight, I should live alongside the disorder, owning it. I decided to deal with this in a peculiar way–permanently placing these fears on my skin, never to run away from them anymore. 

A friend suggested a local tattoo artist. Upon looking at her work I knew it was exactly what I wanted–dark shapes of grotesque omniscient creatures with eyes resembling cosmic black holes. I felt insignificant, small, and alone looking at her work–the art embodied my feelings. You could imagine my excitement when she asked to meet that day. 

When I arrived, the artist showed me her design that was to be placed on my skin forever. I deeply hated and feared it. The drawing depicted a black and grey tenebrous demonic creature of intricate geometric shape, surrounded by a stygian landscape of spectral beings emanating from rips in deep space. The creation was ever changing–I noticed new details every time I studied it. 

The process started and we chose my left upper arm for the placement of this horrendous formation. The tattoo gun buzzed a blasphemous tone. The pain of many needles entering and exiting my skin made me clench my fists and grind my teeth. The ink took on an iridescent color while she dipped her needles into it. I questioned this, to which she replied, “That’s normal”. But it wasn’t. 

For five hours I endured this pain, and at the three hour mark hallucinations from the agony took hold. As the artist drew on my skin, I noticed her lips moving, mumbling a litany of foreign incantations my ears could not make out. It was as if her words brought this creature to life. I peered at my arm, the unutterable design was present in its almost complete form, smiling at me and moving, as if breathing.

I do not remember her wrapping my arm in a protective layer. I do not remember her telling me how to take care of this tattoo. I do not even remember getting home.

When I awoke the following day, my bed was littered with blood. The protective wrap had been ripped off in the night; my arm now burned with excruciating pain. When I washed the plasma off my skin, leaking out of the many small needle holes, I noticed the design looked different than before. Certain areas were beginning to scab, but the placement of the tattoo seemed to have shifted, as if to look at me. The demon tentacles were almost to my neck. It was more unsettling than before.

I put on a shirt and went about my day, popping a pain killer to numb the burning sensations felt every time my left arm moved.

Over the next week, I cleaned the area as it slowly scabbed, then peeled away. New tender skin formed on my arm, leaving a cloudy outline of the accursed tattoo. That night is when it first spoke to me.

I took off my shirt to go to bed. My daily ritual was to look in the mirror at my arm, to be reminded of the fears that resided there. The creature moved, now looking at my reflection in the mirror. That is when I heard its accursed voice, gurgling a demonic tone, “I am your fears embodied on you now, I will always remain at your side.” Its body slithered, tentacles reaching up my neck. I jumped in horror as its voice erupted from the depths of my mind.  

I awoke the next day to blood in my bed again–as I slept I scratched my left arm, tearing the skin away in a mess. I analyzed my arm to see everywhere but the tattoo was damaged, as if it were alive and moved away from my nails. The creature seemed to grin as its multitude of knowing eyes peered at me. 

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My depression did not go away as I presumed, it only got worse. With each day I looked at the permanent creature on my skin. It continued to slither, breath, and speak words of horror in my mind. 

I had enough. I could not take it. It knew everything about me, berating me and beating me down. It knew things about my life, my past and future. It told me how my family would die, how my future children would die. It made me feel alone and insignificant. My fears spoke to me from my arm, telling me what I would find in the afterlife.

I hope you now understand why I placed the knife upon my arm. I cut the tattoo off to the muscle, tearing my skin away, peeling it as if it were the skin on a fruit. I did not weep, but I embraced it with happiness–to finally be rid of my fears.

I tossed the skin in a garburator, tearing it up further to destroy its existence. While getting ready to bandage myself, I assessed the damage. Inside the gaping wound shapes started to form, as if there was a ball of coiled snakes inside, squirming and breathing. The pooling blood, exposed tendons, and muscle were reforming the creature I had just cut off. The voices were still in my head. I cut the wound some more, but the creature only laughed. It was inside me.

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I now sit here, contemplating separating my arm from my body. The demonic voice in my head beckons me to do it. It tells me where dull knives are, to take my time with it. It encourages pain and suffering. I fear the only way to be rid of it is to end my existence; this will destroy the fears that still haunt me for good.

But I won’t do that. I am not done trying. I have called the artist again and she has drawn up everything I love, and it looks beautiful. I will see her later today–on my right arm shall reside a being to demolish this fear. I will conquer it.