Gone But Never Forgotten Tattoos Novels & Stories

"Honestly, I kind of feel bad for him. His parents don't give a damn about him. I heard his bride ditched him for a bar on their wedding night." "Yeah, he chased after her in his tux and got into a fight." On and on they went, talking about every stupid thing I'd ever done. My head was ringing. I could see that night again like it was happening right in front of me. The pouring rain. Sarah wrapped around some muscle-bound guy, kissing him like no one was watching. I charged at them, no thinking, just pure rage. But I was outnumbered. They shoved me to the ground and beat me. My white tuxedo was ruined—filthy, torn, soaked through.

The icy blast would’ve made anyone else recoil, but Dante stood there, solid and unmoving, like he was made of stone. His back was a canvas of ink, just like his front. The artwork was nothing short of breathtaking. Spanning across his entire back was a massive, detailed tattoo—an angel, powerful and divine, standing within the ruins of an ancient temple. The wings spread wide across his shoulder blades, reaching toward his arms, while crumbling pillars surrounded the figure in dramatic grayscale contrast. It wasn’t just a tattoo; it was a story, a testament, a work of devotion etched forever into his flesh. It was absolutely beautiful—mesmerizing, even.

Before bed, he strips down to his boxers and slips beneath my sheets without hesitation. Not because we’re lovers. Not because we’re teammates. Because we’re both. And because sleep doesn’t come easy when your heart’s still on high alert. I lay against his chest, fingers drawing circles over one of his tattoos. The one that says: not made for mercy. “I still don’t know what this one means,” I whisper. He shifts. “It’s for the people who thought I wouldn’t survive.” “And now?” “Now I keep it as a reminder.” “That they were wrong?”

He vowed as they drove out. His fists were clenched throughout the journey and his wolf was at the surface, prancing around and eagerly waiting to pounce on who was behind everything. He wanted to rip the person’s heart out, he wanted to torture the person to death, cut their body into lots of pieces. They arrived at the pack and drove to the tattoo shop, Orson and Ryan walked inside, making a few people leave because of the looks on their faces. “We need to ask a little question, I want direct answers. This tattoo, who has it?” Ryan asked and after glancing at it, he shook his head.

I realized how much I missed him, more than I had admitted to myself. “You really love tattoos,” I remarked as he casually removed his shirt. His back was covered in intricate black and gray tattoos—half a skull, half the face of a crying woman. His shoulders and arms were adorned with shading, letters, and flowers that had intertwined over time. I noticed the names of my parents, mine, and his pack etched on a cross. My dad would have had a fit if I had even a single tattoo.

My hair is down my back in waves, covering the exposed skin. When I look down the dress, I can see the black ink of the tattoo I had done in the month that Dalon and I hadn’t spoken. I had wanted a permanent reminder of him and our time together. A reminder that Italy wasn’t just some dream. The tattoo is simple, but the meaning behind it is powerful. The tattoo is a sun with a moon inside it to symbolize two opposite worlds coming together in the most unexpected but beautiful ways. Like an eclipse that is so rare, but so powerful and beautiful to witness.

stood out, etched permanently into his flesh. The tattoo held a special significance for Neil, representing someone or something that had deeply impacted his life. Its presence served as a constant reminder of a past love or a profound connection that had left an indelible mark on his heart. He started running his finger over that area and closed his eyes immediately as he wanted to relive those memories again.

" Yes of course." " Okay, get ready cause is long..." He said why putting down his food. " Okay firstly, I have one on my chest a wing tattoo which signifies liberty for me. On my forearm, the word GO is written in capital letters cause I love traveling. On my right bicep a big moon representing darkness, on my thorax a rose surrounded with thorns representing the lovely but difficult relationship with my mom. Here,( showing me his left hand) three birds on the back of my left hand representing freedom of choice. On my left-right arm my name written in Chinese, this one, I have done it in Japan during one of my trips. On my left palm a roaring lion representing power. On my right middle fing

Finally, I had second brother and treated him like my own brother, he said with joy. Atty. Nicdao, Mr. Jones and I, are best friends since then. One time, Mr. Jones invited us in a tattoo shop and said, "As a sign of our strong friendships, let's put a tattoo on our pulse." We went to the tattoo shop and followed Mr. Jones, the tattoo maker asked what sign we want to be painted in our pulse, Atty. Nicdao suggested an infinity sign. So, we agreed. I told them to put it on my left hand because I'm left-handed, they wanted to make it uniform so, they asked the tattoo maker to make the tattoo on their left hand too, he said reminiscing those days, he smiled. "I missed them"

Even though it feels like I'm already choking as sweat coats my forehead. Opening the drawer, I take out the machinery. I made it myself, my home tattooing kit of sorts. I'm not half bad when I'm not drunk. But my tattoos aren't meant to be pretty. They're meant to never let me forget what happened. Never forget those who betrayed us. Those who will be made to pay. Not that I need a reminder for that. My memory is fine now. Intact from the moment I woke up after almost six years in a coma. I just can't remember anything before.