Realistic Broken Clock Tattoo Novels & Stories

It was part of the relationship between us. "Yes, it is the very tattoo you always draw. You used to draw it in every single textbook of yours. You went to have that tattoo but you got scared of the needle. So instead of you, I got that tattoo for you. You told me what it meant. It means together, forever." I replied to her unasked question. She gulped hard and I was her eyes moistened up. She leaned in towards my shoulder and pecked my tattoo. It was a broken heart shape that had our initials on and a holy belt that was keeping both parts connected.

“Two long tears. Both eyes.” The tattooist looked up from his tools, his expression grim. “You realize what you’re asking for? This isn’t just any tattoo. It marks you as part of a violent group. Step into River, and you’ll be arrested on sight. Worse, your soul will be bound to hers. If she dies, especially by your hand, your soul shatters into fragments. You’ll be left a husk—a mindless, broken shell. Are you sure about this?” In the corner, Argent leaned against the wall, her arms crossed, her silver braids reflecting the dim light as she formed a heart with her hands.

I looked up at my mentor, my eyes holding a near-fanatical seriousness, mixed with a hint of vulnerability. A butterfly that truly emerges from its cocoon shouldn't just be beautiful. Its wings should be marked by blood, by the scars of its struggle. That's the proof it broke free." Even indoors, despite the heating, I was bundled in thick long sleeves and pants. Only a sliver of my slender neck was visible. The massive glass wall of the studio acted like a cold mirror, clearly reflecting a new tattoo behind my ear—a meticulously designed butterfly. The break in its wings cleverly covered the faint scar left behind by a shard of the crystal chandelier that had fallen in the Blackwood family

"Yeah, have it?" Skoteinó chuckled and removed his white smiley mask that revealed the tattoos on his face. The tattoo that attracts Raverine the most is the official insignia of Die Dark — a smiling skull with a bloody fang. The tattoos were all over his dark-toned face. He also had piercings on his nose and lip — a typical look of an outlaw.

Touching her tattoo, I ask her what it means. “I don’t know how to explain it. You’ll think I’m crazy if I do,” she says. “Try me. I’ve had my fair share of crazy,” I offer in response. “I had the tattoo done after suffering a loss a few years back,” she explains. Pointing at it, she continues, “You see this? It’s called a Nautilus shell. Can you see how it curls up into itself, almost like it’s never ending? For me, that represents infinity with no end and no beginning.”

Marcus continued slowly. “He said when she handed him candy, her wrist was exposed for a moment. On it was a very unusual tattoo.” Marcus took out another photo. It was a child’s drawing. A twisted pumpkin face, its mouth split all the way to the ears, its eyes hollow spirals. “This kind of gothic-style tattoo… a lot of people have them…” My voice grew quieter and quieter. Marcus said nothing. He simply placed a third photo in the center of the table. The background was a beach and the open sea.

He was still out cold, snoring against the stone. "Shh." He put a finger to his cracked, dry lips. He reached a scarred arm through the bars. On the inside of his wrist, there was a tattoo. It was a circle inside a triangle with a wolf’s head in the middle. He tilted it toward me, waiting for me to understand. "Just a rogue with nowhere to go," he rasped. His eyes dropped to my chest. I almost covered myself, thinking he was just another creep, but then I saw it. He wasn't looking at me. He was looking at the charm on my neck. It was the same thing. The circle. The triangle. The wolf.

Each tattoo covered a memory I wanted to forget. At least I could cover these with tattoos. But I couldn't hide my back. And as a guy, there would be times I'd have to take my shirt off. Swimming at the beach. Changing for sports in the locker room. Those were the times I had to be careful. The times I had to make excuses about why I couldn't go swimming or why I had to change in a bathroom stall instead of with everyone else. The times I had to hide who I really was and what I was really going through.

After I shower, I opt for a wife beater and a pair of loose-fitting shorts. My right forearm is still scabbed over from my latest tattoo. Every time I look at it, I am proud that I now have my pack displayed on my body. It had taken me a while to draw out the design just the way I wanted it to look. It depicts a full moon coming up over a hazy horizon. A wolf's head with bright red eyes is baring its teeth as it emerges forth from the moons' surface.

The promise stitched through all three like gold thread. Above them, the moon’s broken face shifted, two shards draw­ing a hair’s breadth nearer. The sound was not a crack this time but a click—small, promising. Far out beyond the glade, a wave struck rock and did not erode it but polish it. Somewhere beneath miles of root, a seed turned and found a way to split the soil. The Nexus took their vow and held it.