We hadn’t been friends since childhood but I thought we were close to count as such. Or, at least, I respected him, he respected me, and we were both mutual on that. I considered that enough back then. Maybe if I had known better, I would have done more of an effort to join him on his escapades, journey along.. not just simply meet monthly at a rickety tavern in the town we first met in.

When we last met, I should’ve expected what I saw on his arms; he had always acted first and acted brash, ending him up in fights aplenty, but that meant he never slept in practically anything but a hospital bed. That’s just the way he is (was?), that blatant swagger he had drawed me in, and knocked me up onto the simple list of people that could pay for shelter and a meal for him. He trusted all those people easily, just like how I trusted him. That’s just the way it was.

“What’s up with your arms?”

“Mh, nothing. Nothing at all,” he replied nonchalant, moving only his head and a nudge of the hand soon after to call a waitress over. But I could see, lifting my head down to glance at the ink beneath his sleeves, sparing a glimpse to the marks. I could see them wriggling, letters and creatures tattooed on his skin. I could see them.

I could see the marks on his arms. The story that they told about him wasn’t pretty. And if only I had said anything about it, then I could’ve stopped him from dissapearing with a man the tattoo told me about.