Russian Prison Tattoos Book Novels & Stories

“What do you think you’re doing here?” His question drew my attention to the tattoos on his upper bicep, and I noticed that all of the men wearing short or sleeveless tops were sporting the same one. It was an insignia, one I recognized only because I’d come across it in prison. I knew it was associated with an underworld gang and only then did I realize the extent of the situation I was finding myself in.

My gaze drifted unconsciously to his collarbone. There was a new tattoo there. Red, still swollen from being freshly inked, but unmistakable. It was my name. The characters were rendered in the most ancient, wild cursive form of script, like an old, binding sigil. My fingers trembled as I touched it. “When did you… get this?” Henry caught my hand and rubbed it gently against his palm. “Last night, after you fell asleep.” “Did it hurt?” “It was better that it hurt.” His eyes darkened, and a satisfied smile curved his lips.

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."

He says. “Martin.” I acknowledge. He reaches into the pocket of his coat and produces a brown envelope, sliding it across the table to me. I signal for a waiter to get the dishes and one hurriedly appears and clears the table. When he’s done, I open the envelope and pull out the single picture in it, it’s a middle-aged man with a bald head that’s heavily tattooed. His has a piercing on left eyebrow above brown eyes that shine with wicked intent. He is smiling, and I catch a hint of gold teeth between his lips. He is in a long-sleeved shirt buttoned all the way to the top, but I can see tattoos on his neck where his collar doesn’t reach and I’m sure they extend below. The picture captures onl

However, when he just pulled his shirt over his head, I really understood what the problem was. Marks. Scars. Cuts, wounds, bruises. Some recent ones. Others from a long time. I would say that most of it was well before that prison became your home. I couldn't look away. Not when I noticed that his entire chest was filled with a painful-looking black tattoo, in which spirals curved and formed disconnected lines, like something done to hide something underneath.

“No! What I think I need to do is speak to my mother so she can separate female toilets from the male ones.” “This is prison! Don’s Daughter. A prison with zero human rights. What did you expect?” “Oh," I say mockingly, " That one's dick is dancing around shamelessly…” I point my index finger at a man covered in tattoos. Even his dicks have drawings and piercings on them. “… My eyes” Jane slaps my finger down and I wince, “Then stop looking! And pointing!” I put my hands back up to cover my eyes and then put two fingers apart, “I’m not looking.”

Without warning, Diego brought their bodies together, not at all gently, but with painful thrusts. Anna's gaze wavered as she saw the body, which was so different from the Diego of old. The Diego of old was thinner and fairer, but the Diego of now was big and muscular, with a dragon tattoo on his chest and another on his left arm that Anna couldn't make out. "Are you enjoying it, Anna? "I enjoyed looking at the tattoos on my body. They were so painful. They made my body their masterpiece in prison. But now I think they're pretty cool, don't you think, Anna?"

He started toward the prison ground, forcing the rest of us to follow. I studied them as we walked. My frame was smaller, weaker. They towered over me, hefty and bold, veins pulsing through their massive arms. Their skin was inked with stories of violence, tattoos of snakes, eagles, and devils’ teeth. Each symbol screamed of a past drenched in crime and brutality. Compared to them, I felt exposed, vulnerable, almost childlike.

My shoes clicked across the dull tiles as I moved further inside, and my stomach tightened when my eyes landed on him. He wasn’t like the others. Most prisoners I had treated in this job were either broken down, old, or too far gone in drugs to even look human anymore. But this one, he looks entirely different. He sat half propped on the bed, his muscular arm stretched out, the other cuffed to the iron frame above his head. The restraint made his chest pull tight, his shirt torn, exposing cut muscle and skin inked in black tattoos. There was a fresh slash across his bicep, blood running down, staining the sheets.

I didn’t think I would be able to survive any longer in that bag. I felt them slice open the top of the bag, narrowly missing my hair by a few strands. When I saw light finally, I thought it was my call to escape, and crawled out of the bag with my free legs. Only to realise I was in another prison. Another den. The feeling of being in that den, although it was diverse from Lenard Lee’s, terrified me to my core. The walls were painted black and the men sported black shirts, like a uniform, but what frightened me further were their tattoos. They were written in Thai language, with no way for me to make out what they meant.