Thread: Ink

Arthur remembered the dry breathlessness of the hospital as he sat in his sister’s empty room. He ran his fingers along the indentions of where her bed used to be and listened to the fan above him shake at its highest setting. The white walls sucked in the thick summer light, deepening the shadows of the room. Next to him there was a black box covered with duck tape and stickers of bands he never heard of. He made sure no one took the box.
Beth could feel Arthur watching her as she gave herself a tattoo. The slow rhythm of the needle rising and falling above her left shin reminded him of cranes picking in the rain drenched grass. He sat surrounded by posters and set lists scribbled on notebook paper and ripped science fiction covers and flattened “UNDER 21” wristbands and printed photos of garage floors covered with blurs that seemed to fall out of the picture.
“Does it hurt?”
“Not really. It all depends where you do it.”
“Where does it hurt the most?”
“For me, it was the ribs. Anywhere close to the bone hurts.”
“Oh.”
She moved the sterilized needle slightly lower down her shin, causing it to reflect the spring light across the room. He leaned his head against a poster of a young man with a lazy eye screaming into a microphone and looked at his arm.
“I want to get one, too.”
She stopped and looked at him.
“Really? What do you want?”
“I don’t know. Something cool on my arm. Like a bird or something.”
“Don’t get a bird, Arthur. Avoid animals and Asian shit.”
“Why not a bird? I like birds.”
“Just trust me; it’ll be something you will regret.”
She switched the needle for a thinner one and dipped it in ink.
“Why are you giving yourself a tattoo?”
“I always wanted a stick-and-poke and I wanted to try out my new kit.”
“Aren’t you worried that you’ll mess up?”
“No, Arthur. I’m not worried.”
He watched her until she was done. She put the needles in a cup on her desk and placed the ink back into the black box and got out a small bottle of lotion from her drawer.
“Can I see?”
“Sure.”
The thin cursive lines were slightly pink and red at the edges and shiny beneath the light. As far as he could tell it was perfect.
“Where is that from?”
“A book.”
“What does it mean?”
“Lots of things.”
“But what does it mean to you?”
“I’m tired, Arthur. I’ll tell you later, okay?”
“Okay.”
He opened the black box and took out a small vial of black ink and the unopened package of sterilized needles. He ripped open the package and watched the light bounce off the thin shard of metal before he placed it on the lid of the box. He rolled up his left cuff and took the needle and dipped it in ink and rested the edge against his shin.
Her tattoos seemed shallow and fake beneath the florescent lights. He sat against the window, feeling the cold pre-dawn darkness on his back. He only heard the sounds of his father speaking as he felt his hand on his shoulder. He was gently being pushed out of the room. He couldn’t stop looking at her arms and how thin and fragile each tattoo looked. He knew if he touched them they would crumble. He was being led out of the room.
He felt a sharp pain against his shin as he applied pressure. He drove it in deeper, watching the ink bloom beneath his skin. When it stopped spreading he repeated it again. A crooked raw line soon appeared. He continued, only stopping to refill the jagged end with ink. He didn’t hear the door open and he didn’t feel the hands gripping his arms.
Beth sank into the leather seat. Arthur watched the plastic tubes twist the cold morning light into jagged shards upon the floor. The nurse offered him crackers but he was not hungry.
“Does it hurt?”
“Not really, it just feels odd.”
“What about the new tattoo?”
“That doesn’t hurt.”
“That’s good.”
Her pale frame floated upon the black leather as if she was a boat light in the dark sea.
“I’ve decided what tattoo I want to get.”
“Oh? Is it that bird one?”
“Yeah but I think it will be cool because I want you to do it for me.”
“Okay but we’ll have to wait until you’re older. Where do you want it?”
“On my shin.”
She smiled at him.
“Okay. I can’t do it anytime soon so you got to wait. Is that alright?”
“I’ll try to wait.”
“Good.”
He could hear shouting downstairs and he knew it was about him. They took the black box from him. Beneath the bandage on his arm he felt a faint stinging. It itched but he was told not to touch it. The fan above him spun lazily and he remembered the night where Beth came home with her first tattoo. He heard her arguing with her parents and he later found her in her room crying.
“Are you okay?”
“I’m fine, Arthur.”
He sat down next to her.
“I think it looks pretty cool.”
“Really?”
“Yeah.”
“Thank you.”
They sat in silence and they could hear their parents talking downstairs.
“Did it hurt much?”
“Not really. It was a weird kind of pain.”
“Weird?”
“Yeah. Even though it hurt it felt kinda nice. Relieving, in a way.”
His memories drifted and the pain in his arm died down and soon he fell asleep. The heavy summer night crept along the indentions on the floor in the empty room next to his. The shadow of the window threw itself upon the white walls, giving it shape and definition until the morning where the streetlights are turned off for the day.

1. The dialog was lackluster. There should be some distinction in the voices of the two charcters but in the end it could've been the same person having a conversation with themself (per se). Adding some context around the words could also better the dialog. For example instead of
“Are you okay?”
“I’m fine, Arthur.”
you could try
“Are you okay?”
“I’m fine, Arthur," said Beth sitting atop the bed, her legs raised to her chest [as in a fetal position], fresh tears streaking down her cheeks”
2. The story itself is too simplistic and therefore the bond your trying to show between the two characters suffers.
3. You never mention why she was in the hospital or why her room was suddenly empty
4. Lastly the focal point "the ink" is faint that is I don't feel it's significance, you could readily replace it with yo-yoing.

You need to stick with one POV character, IMO. Some authors pull off changing POV within a scene, but I wouldn't recommend trying it. I recommend picking one character and staying in his or her head the entire scene, and edit and ensure the view stays consistent.

I was confused by the setting; at first I thought he was at the hospital, later in his sisters room, then his sister was there, then she wasn't... too many switches making it difficult to keep track on what is actually happening and when/where the main character is at any given moment. Splitting up the paragraphs and specifying it a little better would probably help.

Sincerely
Tomas

I agree with the comment on point of view/narration. I found the setting confusing too.

Either way, sounds like you've got some pretty good ideas out. Some of the descriptions are quite detailed I must say. I especially like the description of the walls "sucking in the thick summer light", very powerful indeed.

Peace,

Revekka

I really liked this. I had a sense that the story is around a very important event that I couldn't find in the story. I would agree with the above posts about a little confusion in the POV and location.

I can tell you are a talented writer. A little more detail and clarification would make this a wonderful read.

Nerot

thanks for the input!
here's a 2nd draft of the story:
Arthur remembered the dry breathlessness of the hospital as he sat in his sister’s empty room. He ran his fingers along the indentions of where her bed used to be and listened to the fan above shake at its highest setting. The white walls breathed in the thick August light, deepening the shadows of the room. Next to him was a black box covered with duct tape and stickers of bands he never heard of. He made sure no one took the box.
Outside the room a hand whispered against the banister and he waited until he heard footsteps downstairs before closing the door. He tried not to listen to his parents talk but his stomach felt as if it was clothed in a skin of cold water as he heard his mother’s voice begin to rise. Something crash down against the stove top and soon the sound of yelling rang through the house.
Inside the box there were a small vial of black ink and an unopened package of sterilized needles. He ripped open the package and watched the light bounce off the thin shard of metal before he placed it on the carpet next to him. His left cuff was rolled up and he took the needle, dipped it in ink, and rested the edge against his shin.
A sharp pain ran through his leg as he applied pressure. He drove it in deeper, watching the ink bloom beneath his skin. When it stopped spreading he repeated it again. Someone called his name. A crooked raw line soon appeared. He continued, only stopping to refill the jagged end with ink. He didn’t hear the door open. He didn’t feel the hands grip his arm.

***

Earlier that year Arthur sat surrounded by posters, set lists scribbled on notebook paper, ripped science fiction covers, flattened “UNDER 21” wristbands, and printed photos of garage floors covered with blurs that seemed to fall out of the picture. Beth could feel him watching her as she gave herself a tattoo. The slow rhythm of the needle rising and falling above her left shin reminded him of cranes picking in the rain drenched grass.
“Does it hurt?”
“Not really. It all depends where you do it.”
“Where does it hurt the most?”
“For me, it was the ribs. Anywhere close to the bone hurts.”
She moved the needle slightly lower down her shin, causing it to reflect the sharp February light across the room. He leaned his head against a poster and looked at his arm.
“I want to get one, too.”
She stopped and looked at him.
“Really? What do you want?”
“I don’t know. Something cool on my arm. Like a bird or something.”
“Don’t get a bird, Arthur. Avoid animals and Asian shit.”
“Why not a bird? I like birds.”
“Just trust me; it’ll be something you will regret.”
She switched the needle for a thinner one and dipped it in ink.
“Why are you giving yourself a tattoo?”
“I always wanted a stick-and-poke and I wanted to try out my new kit.”
“Aren’t you worried that you’ll mess up?”
“No, I’m not worried.”
He watched her until she was done. She put the needles in a cup on her desk and placed the ink back into the black box and got out a small bottle of lotion from her drawer.
“Can I see?”
“Sure.”
The thin cursive lines were slightly pink and red at the edges and shiny beneath the light. As far as he could tell it was perfect.
“Where is that from?”
“A book.”
“What does it mean?”
“Lots of things.”
“But what does it mean to you?”
“I’m tired, Arthur. I’ll tell you later, okay?”
“Okay,”

***

She sank into the leather seat. He watched the plastic tubes twist the cold morning light into jagged shards upon the floor. The nurse offered him crackers but he wasn’t hungry. It was her first day of chemotherapy.
“Does it hurt?”
“Not really, it just feels odd.”
“What about the new tattoo?”
“That doesn’t hurt.”
“That’s good.”
Her pale frame floated upon the black leather as if she was a boat light in the dark sea.
“I’ve decided what tattoo I want to get.”
“Oh? Is it that bird one?”
“Yeah but I think it will be cool because I want you to do it for me.”
“Where would you want it?”
“On my shin.”
She smiled at him.
“Okay. I can’t do it anytime soon so you got to wait. Is that alright?”
“I’ll try to wait.”
“Good.”

***

Her tattoos seemed shallow and fake beneath the florescent lights. He sat against the window, feeling the cold pre-dawn darkness on his back. His father was speaking softly as he felt his hand on his shoulder. The room seemed to move beneath his feet as he was gently pushed towards the door. He couldn’t stop looking at her arms and how thin and fragile each tattoo looked. He knew if he touched them they would crumble.
The cold air of the hospital bit his skin. His mother walked out of the room and leaned against the wall. Her eyes were closed and he could hear her breathing slow, deep breaths.
“Mom?”
She didn’t respond.
“Mom, I’m cold.”
“I told you to bring your sweater.”
“I’m sorry.”
“This is what happens when you don’t listen. You’re a grown boy and you shouldn’t be relying on me for every little thing.”
Her voice began to rise.
“You’re cold? Beth is in there dying and there’s nothing anyone can do. I told you to bring your fucking sweater but you don’t listen.”
His father came out of the room and put his hand on her shoulder. She moved away from him.
“Don’t touch me. Don’t you fucking touch me.”
“You’re causing a scene.”
“Fuck you, Henry. She’s in there dying and what the fuck are you doing about it?”
“Please don’t do this. Not in front of him.”
Arthur walked back into the room and sat down next to Beth as their parents began to argue outside.

***

He could hear shouting downstairs and he knew it was about him. They took the black box from him. Beneath the bandage on his arm he felt a faint stinging. It itched but he was told not to touch it. The fan above him spun lazily and he remembered the night when Beth came home with her first tattoo. He heard her arguing with her parents and he later found her in her room crying on the floor.
“Are you okay?”
“I’m fine, Arthur.”
He sat down next to her.
“I think it looks pretty cool.”
“Really?”
“Yeah.”
“Thank you.”
They sat in silence and they could hear their parents talking downstairs.
“Did it hurt much?”
She wiped her eyes and looked at the inside of her left forearm.
“Not really. It was a weird kind of pain.”
“Weird?”
“Yeah. Even though it hurt it felt kinda nice. Relieving, in a way.”
His memories drifted and the pain in his arm died down and soon he fell asleep. The heavy summer night crept along the indentions on the floor in the empty room next to his. The shadow of the window threw itself upon the white walls, giving it shape and definition until the morning where the streetlights are turned off for the day.

This touched me. I think the revised piece flowed better than the first one. The setting was easier to understand. I thought the dialog was realistic for that situation, I think anything added to it would lessen the impact of the sister/brother bond.
I love your descriptions. I'm a literal minded person and the pictures came to life with ease.

I am very intrigued by this story and what happens next and what is happening to his sister. As a nurse, I think you captured the friction and fracturing composure that often happens when a loved one is gravely ill.

Originally Posted by Hinducow28

He ran his fingers along the indentions of where her bed used to be and listened to the fan above shake at its highest setting.

This part I dont understand. What indentations? Indentations on the floor? I have never seen a hospital bed that left indentations, unless perhaps a bariatric bed?

The questions your excerpt has given me: Where did she go? Did she die? Or am I supposed to wonder all these things so I want to read more? Either way it has me intrigued and wanting to know more

He's sitting in her empty room running his fingers on the indention on the floor left by her bed frame.

Thank you all for checking it out and for the input!

Ok so I am going to be annoyingly nit picky since I work in a hospital. There are no ceiling fans. Probably has something to do with dust falling on the patient and microbes being spread around the room or something. There's lots of high blast cold AC which you can tie in with the cold loss (or how cold her body is when she is dead) of the sister (if she is indeed lost) as well as how unwelcoming and sterile and uncomfortable the hospital is...especially when your mom is treating you like shit and you dont have a sweater.

The indentation thing is unlikely, although dark black scuffing from the dirty wheels are more likely and it reminds me of the whole black tattoo ink thing. If you mention sitting on the floor, I would find it even more moving especially if you touch the dirty scuff marks as if that was all that was left of her and even that would fade away when they washed the floor. There is something very moving about the image of a bereft boy sitting on a dirty hospital room floor. If you include the sitting on the floor part then the reader gets that visual image.

Thanks for accepting my ideas and responding so quickly. I am so interested in your story

Oh wait! If the boy is in his sister's room then it makes sense so throw out all that junk I just said but I agree with everyone else on how it is difficult to discern where this guy is.