At first people thought it was a scam. A tattoo place that can show you your future… c’mon. Then people started to realise that it was true.

I’ve debated getting my own tattoo for a while now, but I’ve been debating whether it’s better to no or not.

After a car crash 5 months ago took Deb from me, I reached a point where I needed to know… if there was a reason to continue.

Entering the store, I met the not unpleasant smell of rubbing alcohol and the buzzing of the tattoo machines. There was a small seating area to the left and right. Slightly ahead was the reception desk where a bald, early 30s guy was sitting on his phone. He looked fierce with his face piercings and his sleeved arms telling his story. He looked up at me.

“Hey pal!” He said with a warm smile.

“Umm, hi” I managed to mutter whilst staring at my feet.

“Nervous? Let’s take a seat and have a chat. Not really had anyone to chat to today yet. The names Rex.” He said, grinning as he moved over to me, put his arm around me and lead us to the seats.

“Not much of a talker I guess. Ohhh, the looks get ya?” He said, chuckling away.

“Sorry, just didn’t expect you to be so nice to me.” I said, grimacing inside realising how pathetic I sounded.

“Well you always choose how you are with people and when you know the day you’ll die, you tend to be a bit nicer to people.” Rex said, a little less cheery than he sounded.

I kept quiet. Unsure of how to respond.

“Lemme explain how this works. You can get your story tattooed on your body. You can get the full Shabang or a little piece. You can’t chose the piece though. It’s the next bit of your story that gets tattooed first and you can’t skip it. The most important bit, once it’s on, that’s it. No changing it, even if it’s bad. Events are locked in and no going back.” Rex said calmly. He had clearly done this many times before.

A young woman walked past us from the tatto area and out of the shop. She was sobbing as she went passed.

“Guess she had a bad one. Never an easy sight. You know what her leaving means though?” Rex asked, looking at me.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“Free seat. You up for it, pal?” Rex said, shifting his eyes into the back of the shop.

Have you ever tried to describe someone’s soul as a colour? I haven’t… but why does it make so much sense?

You are so clearly a sky blue soul.

Sky blue - peace, calm… serene.

Sky blue - a warm sunny day that’s full of nostalgia. Those days that you would lay in a field, looking up to the sky with friends during summer.

Sky blue - trust and openness.

Sky blue - fundemental to my existence.

Why does it make so much sense that you’re a sky blue soul?

They say forgiveness is a virtue, but I’d rather keep my anger. Younger me’s sad little heart, Dragged down by an anchor.

To the world, I was the issue, To this day, I do not miss you. I hope you’re happy in your own way, To this day, the price I still pay.

During that time, I sank so low, low, low, How low, no one will ever know. I relied on friends and strangers for help, Like a dog, I did yelp.

So much rage, unable to let go, My head, my emotions… ready to blow. From my situation, I had to quit, To you and those, I will never submit.

They say forgiveness is a virtue, but I’d rather keep my anger. I still think often of all that you done, I finally begin to see, I’m the one that won.

When no one is watching, I let my mask slip, My depression and anxiety really take a grip.

In these moments, my mind begins to think, Dishes, plates and forks fill up the sink.

Am I still good when there’s no eyes to see, Or do I allow my soul and mind to pay the fee.

When I’m alone, I allow myself to cry, To myself, I never have to lie.

When no one is watching, I begin to grow, Facing my challenges I can really flow.

Alone, I have no one I need to impress, There is no need to ever second guess.

During this time, I can really begin to relax, Spending time alone, no one can match.

My time alone, I can sing in the shower, My inner me can really begin to flower.

When no one is watching, is it positive or negative, I guess the answer to that one, is that it is relative.

Christmas is and isn’t the best time of year, For so many, this is a time of great fear.

So many people feeling like they aren’t enough, In a cycle of buying more and more stuff.

Some kids have no presents under the tree, How sad, a room with kids and no glee.

Some tables will be set with an unused plate, A father, a mother, a loved one or mate.

Always remember, the warmth in the ice, That Santa knows who’s naughty and nice.

So hug your loved ones a little tighter this year, Make sure to spread that Christmas cheer.

Not everyone gets to share this pleasure, These are the memories that you’ll treasure.

There is only one thing left for me to say, I hope that you all have a merry Christmas Day.

There’s a garden in the dark where only shadows bloom, Petals black as mourning, fed by whispers in the gloom.

No sun has ever kissed it, no rain has graced its soil, Yet roots twist deep in silence, where forgotten secrets coil.

I found it on a night when the moon had turned away, Its air was thick with quiet screams that dared not see the day.

The stems, they stretched in stillness, toward no light at all, Their blossoms drank the echoes of a voice that used to call.

I knelt to touch the petals, soft as ghosts and cold as sin, But every breath I took outside, the garden pulled within.

I felt the weight of eyes unseen, beneath the shadowed trees, A presence rooted in the dark, with voices like a breeze.

Once, I thought to pluck one, a flower born of shade, But in my hand, it withered, and the garden’s path decayed.

Now I wander endless nights, where no stars ever glow, And I can hear them breathing still, where the shadows grow.

It was the third Wednesday of the month again. That means it was the night for Dave to have the monthly evening dinner with Jim, his colleague from work.

That evening, it was Dave’s turn to cook. Dave adored cooking. There was nothing he enjoyed more - well, almost nothing. Dave was in the kitchen cooking steaks on the pan, whilst singing along to Otis Reading’s, “The Dock of the Bay”.

“Those smell amazing Dave. No need to go showing off” said Jim with a wry smile.

“You’re not supposed to be here, Jim.” Replied Dave without taking his eyes off the pan.

“Just getting the wine from the rack.” Said Jim reaching for Malbec and 2 glasses.

“Not too big a glass for me - not like last time. Don’t want to get carried away again. I’ll bring the steaks through in 5 minutes.” Said Dave,

“A maestro at work creating his masterpiece.” Said Jim walking away chuckling quietly.

Five minutes later, Dave brought through 2 plates lavished with steaks, tomatoes and potatoes. Dave sat one plate on his side of the table and the other on Jim’s side before sitting in front of his plate.

“Don’t you ever think about leaving the butcher shop? You’d make one hell of a chef” Asked Jim whilst beginning to make cuts into the steak, blood oozing out.

“Not really given it much thought actually. I’m happy there. I get access to all the best meats.” Replied Dave. Both men starting to laugh.

“Who was this one?” Asked Jim.

“Frank” replied Dave, without bothering to look up from his meal, continuing to cut his steak with knife and fork.

“Which one was he?” Asked Jim, whilst looking at Jim and pointing the fork at the steak on his plate.

Dave hesitated for a brief moment with a puzzled look on his face, before answering, “I think he was… the gardener.”

My love, why do you doubt away your life, One day, you’re going to be my one and only wife.

I know that sometimes you are overcome with worry, That life can come at you, all in a flurry.

You let yourself get washed away in a river of fear, You’re the one thing that I hold most dear.

Sometimes you let yourself get full of no relief, Oh how I wish I could give you my belief.

Don’t let yourself float away to the moon, or you’ll miss the flowers under your feet that bloom.

Do not worry to stand out amongst the crowd, Of you, I will never cease of being proud.

You will be able to do more than you will ever know, I will be standing beside, following anywhere you go.

You have given me an impossible love, My very own perfect, little, white dove.

Rick looks into the mirror and says, “I know you’re watching me.”

No response.

Rick can’t remember the last time there was a response.

To anyone else, it would look like paranoia.

Rick’s therapist told him that this was a manifestation of his anxiety…

Rick doesn’t think so.

To Rick, this is his battleground of emotion.

“I know you’re watching me.” Rick screams at the mirror.

The sweat running down his face being mirrored by the condensation on the glass.

“Is that… letters?” Thinks Rick.

Gone in the blink of an eye. Were they really there?

“Am I mad?” Thinks Rick.

His reflection seems normal. Moving the way it should, but those eyes… always watching.

Rick’s paranoia grows, and he begins to isolate himself. Friends and coworkers notice his erratic behaviour - avoiding eye contact, mumbling to himself, constantly checking over his shoulder.

Dr. Marlow suggests increasing his medication, but Rick resists.

“This isn’t in my head,” he insists. “It’s real. It’s the mirror!”

One night, Rick confronts the mirror again, his voice shaking with a mix of fear and defiance.

“What do you want from me?” Asks Rick.

“You’ve been running from me for years. I’m the part of you that remembers everything you want to forget.” His reflection replies, grinning, with a voice tinged with malice.

“I’m going to _help _you.” The reflection says.

“No. Leave me alone!” Rick screams, as he punches the mirror. Cracks slice through it like a web.

Pain flares in his hand and his eyes fill with tears from the pain.

When he blinks the tears away, the reflection is as it should be again. Albeit, now splintered into many different versions of itself in the shards.

No hint of anything amiss.

The next evening, Dr. Marlow knocks on Rick’s door.

“Rick… are you in there? You missed our appointment today.”

…

No response.

Dr. Marlow tries the handle. The door gives way and opens.

The apartment is eerily quiet.

Dr. Marlow searches the apartment, but finds nothing.

In the bathroom that adjoins Rick’s bedroom, Dr. Marlow finds glass covering the floor. The mirror lays in the bathtub, ripped from the wall.

Dr. Marlow feels a breath on his neck as a familiar voice says “You should have listened to me…”