Zhou Tingsheng was originally planning on tattooing the back of her hand
to cover up the bite marks. Ye Qiao, however, responded that she had plenty
of scars on her and took off her top without a second thought. Zhou Tingsheng
wasn’t the kind of person who cared for propriety anyway and didn’t stop her.
With a frivolous smile, he came straight to the point: “I need to cut the outlines
first.”
His eyes looked back to her shapely breasts: “Pain nerves are unevenly located
throughout each person’s body. The part on your chest is usually very sensitive--
--” His voice rose as he spoke.
Ye Qiao believed he was pausing on purpose: “-- --You sure you want to have
the tattoo here?”
She turned a deaf ear to his increasingly blatant flirting: “I’m sure.”
“What do you want?”
“Wuzi said I have to listen to you.”
Zhou Tingsheng laughed. Ye Qiao quietly laid there and the part of her body still
busily working was her brain. She became very sensitive to every sound he made.
In this state, his laughter sounded full of vitality yet lonely.
He warned her in a casual manner: “Ye Qiao, this is something that will stay with
you the rest of your life.”
She was at ease with her own decision: “One will experience many things in one’s
lifetime yet not many of them are under one’s own control.”
Zhou Tingsheng had come up with the pattern in his head and said: “Alright, don’t
regret it.” He put on latex gloves, moved the machine in place, and dutifully gave
her an advance warning: “The first step hurts more. Can you handle it?”
Ye Qiao: “I can.”
The pain from cutting the outline was within her pain tolerance level.
He was quite consummate at what he was doing. The cold needle point cut through
the skin, the edges of the broken skin were only faintly red, but without any bleeding.
The sharp pain turned into dull numbness after a while.
Ye Qiao uncaringly closed her eyes, her breathing slightly faster than normal.
She asked: “Have you learned how to paint?”
“Anyone who learns tattooing has to.”
“I mean Chinese painting.”
Zhou Tingsheng was quiet for a moment: “How can you tell?”
Ye Qiao was very sure of herself: “The way you hold the needle is different.”
The needle pinched her left chest. Ye Qiao gasped through her teeth.
He slowly started talking as a distraction: “You good at painting?”
“Not really.” Her voice was still tight yet she tried to speak calmly: “My father knows
how to paint.”
“Painter?” He asked though without much doubt in his tone.
“You can say that.”
He praised: “An artist family.” His tone slightly cynical.
Even casual conversation couldn’t distract her from the increasing pain. In her daze,
scenes of the past seemed to circle around her eyes.
She had lost track of time and finally, the needle left her skin. She was saved.
Ye Qiao breathed out a sigh of relief and started gasping for air.
It was already deep into the night. She was covered in a cold sweat and hadn’t noticed
the rain that was pouring outside the window.
Ye Qiao got up, pulling the bathrobe up around her. The window, with the curtains
pulled aside, faced a deserted beach. The glass on the window reflected the tattoo
on her chest. It was only a blurry outline with tangled vines and twigs, like a thorny
serpent.
Zhou Tingsheng brazenly admired his own work-- --it had never been this perfect
before.
It reminded him of the time he was studying painting under Xu Zang. He was quite
young at the time and heard that his teacher was a very noble painter. Indeed, though
Xu Zang became the most famous contemporary painter, with each painting auctioning
for tens millions of dollars in Hong Kong, he would sometimes donate all the money.
He was only interested in the arts, neither fame nor money.
Who could have known that this painter’s daughter had a body which could be used
as a scroll for painting.
He hadn’t put colors on the pattern, but Ye Qiao’s lips were already turning pale, her
heartbeat quickened, and her organs felt like they were tightening.
She pulled some pills onto her palm and he brought her a cup of water. She thanked
him despite feeling like she was about to suffocate.
Zhou Tingsheng calmly gave her all the facts: “After cutting the outline, if we don’t put
the colors on immediately, we’ll have to wait till 75 days later when the scars are gone
to keep the integrity of the picture.”
Ye Qiao swallowed the pills with water. Though her throat was still tight, she shook her
head and squeezed out a few words: “Finish it tonight.”
He refused: “If we continue, you’ll run the risk of going into shock.”
Ye Qiao didn’t insist on going through with it.
Zhou Tingsheng was originally planning on tattooing the back of her hand
to cover up the bite marks. Ye Qiao, however, responded that she had plenty
of scars on her and took off her top without a second thought. Zhou Tingsheng
wasn’t the kind of person who cared for propriety anyway and didn’t stop her.
With a frivolous smile, he came straight to the point: “I need to cut the outlines
first.”
His eyes looked back to her shapely breasts: “Pain nerves are unevenly located
throughout each person’s body. The part on your chest is usually very sensitive--
--” His voice rose as he spoke.
Ye Qiao believed he was pausing on purpose: “-- --You sure you want to have
the tattoo here?”
She turned a deaf ear to his increasingly blatant flirting: “I’m sure.”
“What do you want?”
“Wuzi said I have to listen to you.”
Zhou Tingsheng laughed. Ye Qiao quietly laid there and the part of her body still
busily working was her brain. She became very sensitive to every sound he made.
In this state, his laughter sounded full of vitality yet lonely.
He warned her in a casual manner: “Ye Qiao, this is something that will stay with
you the rest of your life.”
She was at ease with her own decision: “One will experience many things in one’s
lifetime yet not many of them are under one’s own control.”
Zhou Tingsheng had come up with the pattern in his head and said: “Alright, don’t
regret it.” He put on latex gloves, moved the machine in place, and dutifully gave
her an advance warning: “The first step hurts more. Can you handle it?”
Ye Qiao: “I can.”
The pain from cutting the outline was within her pain tolerance level.
He was quite consummate at what he was doing. The cold needle point cut through
the skin, the edges of the broken skin were only faintly red, but without any bleeding.
The sharp pain turned into dull numbness after a while.
Ye Qiao uncaringly closed her eyes, her breathing slightly faster than normal.
She asked: “Have you learned how to paint?”
“Anyone who learns tattooing has to.”
“I mean Chinese painting.”
Zhou Tingsheng was quiet for a moment: “How can you tell?”
Ye Qiao was very sure of herself: “The way you hold the needle is different.”
The needle pinched her left chest. Ye Qiao gasped through her teeth.
He slowly started talking as a distraction: “You good at painting?”
“Not really.” Her voice was still tight yet she tried to speak calmly: “My father knows
how to paint.”
“Painter?” He asked though without much doubt in his tone.
“You can say that.”
He praised: “An artist family.” His tone slightly cynical.
Even casual conversation couldn’t distract her from the increasing pain. In her daze,
scenes of the past seemed to circle around her eyes.
She had lost track of time and finally, the needle left her skin. She was saved.
Ye Qiao breathed out a sigh of relief and started gasping for air.
It was already deep into the night. She was covered in a cold sweat and hadn’t noticed
the rain that was pouring outside the window.
Ye Qiao got up, pulling the bathrobe up around her. The window, with the curtains
pulled aside, faced a deserted beach. The glass on the window reflected the tattoo
on her chest. It was only a blurry outline with tangled vines and twigs, like a thorny
serpent.
Zhou Tingsheng brazenly admired his own work-- --it had never been this perfect
before.
It reminded him of the time he was studying painting under Xu Zang. He was quite
young at the time and heard that his teacher was a very noble painter. Indeed, though
Xu Zang became the most famous contemporary painter, with each painting auctioning
for tens millions of dollars in Hong Kong, he would sometimes donate all the money.
He was only interested in the arts, neither fame nor money.
Who could have known that this painter’s daughter had a body which could be used
as a scroll for painting.
He hadn’t put colors on the pattern, but Ye Qiao’s lips were already turning pale, her
heartbeat quickened, and her organs felt like they were tightening.
She pulled some pills onto her palm and he brought her a cup of water. She thanked
him despite feeling like she was about to suffocate.
Zhou Tingsheng calmly gave her all the facts: “After cutting the outline, if we don’t put
the colors on immediately, we’ll have to wait till 75 days later when the scars are gone
to keep the integrity of the picture.”
Ye Qiao swallowed the pills with water. Though her throat was still tight, she shook her
head and squeezed out a few words: “Finish it tonight.”
He refused: “If we continue, you’ll run the risk of going into shock.”
Ye Qiao didn’t insist on going through with it.
