Realistic Broken Clock Tattoo Novels & Stories

Is it the year of the man who made it, or the year of the watch? The front of the clock should have no number, so there should be twelve lines or, at most, four bars and a minute needle, but there is nothing. It's not an electronic clock, but it doesn't have a button and doesn't light up. Rosabella doesn't know why she bought this! Ting Ting. 1879 cried again. Rosabella was supposed to go to bed, but still, out of curiosity, she turned it around and watched it again. This time she felt a braille line at the watch's bottom.

Each day I wear long sleeves shirts and pants to school to cover the bruises on my body to avoid any Suspicious towards me. I isolate myself from crowds, so yes I don't have friends at all, the cause is afraid of what that man whom I call father will do, or even worse make them think of a whore who sleeps with anybody. I don't have a boyfriend at all, cause of my dad. Many boys have found me attractive and even asked me out on dates, I refused their offer cause of my dad. My grades at school are outstanding, being great at sports, but never played due to the bruise on my body.

My hand flew to the nape of my neck as I traced my eyes over the crescent moon shaped groove. ‘Our necklace, it’s gone again.’ Rayna laughed bitterly, ‘Just when we actually need it, it’s gone.’ Rayna was right. The key hole was identical to the crystal moon of my necklace. Now that I was paying attention, I could no longer feel the thick chord around my throat. Somehow, it hadn’t followed me into this constructed reality. I wouldn’t allow myself to lose hope. This reality seemed to be a mirrored image of my own with just a few differences. There had to be a replica of my necklace in this reality, and that meant I still had a chance. I wasn’t sure how unlocking the clock could help me, but i

I bow my head, pretend to focus on the screen. "You were staring," he says in a low, amused voice. He leans against my desk, arms crossed, towering over me. "My tattoos interest you?" I shake my head, too quickly. "No, I… it's nothing." He chuckles softly. "Liar." He pulls up the left sleeve of his t‑shirt, revealing more of the raven and other symbols: a miniature cathedral, eight‑pointed stars, Cyrillic numbers. "Every design has a story. The raven… it's for memory. For those we've lost, but never forget. The stars are rank. The cathedral… the faith you keep even when everything else goes to hell."

"And my mum will literally kill me if she ever finds out that not only did l break a rule in a few weeks but also got a tattoo ." "Good thing I'm an artist." Mara picked up her fork, unbothered. "We don't need real ones. I just need the right ink. Temporary, convincing, close enough to pass a door check in bad lighting." She speared a piece of fruit. "I've done harder things." "That is genuinely not the reassurance you think it is." Mara smiled. Then, like it had only just occurred to her — "How did you get back last night, by the way?"

“Much better.” I turned towards the bathroom and the florescent light flicked to life and when I saw myself in the mirror, I almost cried. My black hair was tangled around my shoulders, my green eyes dulled by exhaustion stared back at me, ringed faintly with shadows I hadn’t bothered to cover in days. My body was familiar in the same way with big breasts that drew attention whether I wanted them to or not, skin marked with the only tattoo I’d ever gotten. The ink sat between my breasts, black lines curling through my cleavage and wrapping beneath the curve of them. Something I’d chosen on a drunk and angry night after my first breakup.

Saint was about to look away grudgingly when Nicholas's towel lowered itself and then fell to the floor, revealing a tattoo. His gaze snagged on it before he could even stop himself. The tattoo rested low on Nicholas's back, directly above his waist. The design climbed the base of his spine in elegant black lines. Sharp points and sweeping curves intertwined around a narrow central shape that resembled a watchful eye. Thorn-like flourishes stretched outward before curling back in on themselves, giving the impression of something dangerous held barely under control.

His eyes, a startling shade of amber, held a stillness that felt ancient. “I need a cover-up,” he said, his voice a low rumble. He shrugged off his leather jacket and revealed an old, poorly done tattoo on his left pectoral, right over his heart. It was a mess of faded lines, but beneath the jumbled ink, Sloane could see the faint, elegant shape of a Celtic knot. “Something to bind it. To make it permanent.”

Somewhere outside a car engine started and then died. Half an hour later, she tiptoed into her daughter’s room. The girl slept curled around the toy rabbit. Georgia brushed a piece of hair from her face. “I’ll keep you safe,” she promised. “Even if it breaks me.” She straightened and almost screamed. A small object lay on the windowsill, a silver cufflink etched with an H. She snatched it up, heart racing. It was warm as if someone had just put it there. She yanked the blinds closed and backed into the hallway, holding the cufflink to her chest.

It shattered on the floor. Madison gasped, starting to rise. “I’ll clean it up…” “No, stay there,” Richard said quickly, crouching down to gather the shards himself. But his mind was racing, hands trembling and the glass bit into his skin. “Richard!” Madison rushed to him, grabbing his hand to check the cut. Her worry froze into shock when her eyes caught the faint mark on his wrist. It was small, almost hidden—but unmistakable. A tattoo. 16/07/2024.