rightprices:
“I think that depends on which scale we’re talking about.”
Her arm was still red and swollen. The tattoo crept over her skin and the skull glared at him with its gaping, eyeless holes. Joyce was going to raise hell.
“Chloe, there is not a scale alive that your mother won’t break,“ he finally admitted, his voice betraying something–stress? He tried to keep it under. "Want to tell me what’s going on?”
“The scale where I end up dead.” Her fingernails scraped lightly over the plastic, chipping blue against vibrant reds and greens - carefully, to avoid pressing on the raw, newly coloured skin. She felt like a stupid kid again, the little girl who’d been caught red handed with a bottle of wine.
“It felt like a good idea at the time,” It still did, if she was being honest; the images permanently embedded in her skin felt right, like they belonged. That wasn’t what he wanted to hear right now, she was sure, so she made a show of looking ashamed (and she was, but if she thought about that too hard she might really regret it).
“It’s not that bad. I mean, I could've ended up with a butterfly tramp stamp and some guy’s name tattooed on my neck.”
