The tattoos had really become a part of me. I could feel the ink slipping into my skin as the rising sun illuminated them.
They almost made me feel guilty for cutting. They were, to a certain extent, pieces of art, and here I was digging into them, defaceing them, and covering them with scars.
But for a brief moment they all blended together: the red dripping over the blues and greens of roses and butterflies etched into my pores.
I must have looked a mess.
But the guy still picked me up when I lifted my thumb out into the cold stale air.
Irony; I put it down when I saw him coming. I didn't want to be inside that car. It was the same car he'd had. Even that same shade of red.
But he'd stopped anyway.
As I crawled into the seat, smelling sweat, I chuckled.
"What's so funny?"
"I think I knew you would stop."