Tattoo Conspiracy

We must've looked quite out of place, a mother and daughter in a tattoo parlor, standing around, waiting, not knowing what else to do. I wasn't nervous. I'd had plenty of time to contemplate my decision. It'd given me a bit of serenity. My mom, however, was nervous, and it must've showed because another customer struck up a conversation, asking if it was our first time (it was), explaining he was getting his tattoo touched up, talking about the artists, things like that. Then he said something I'll never forget.

"It doesn't hurt much. Just feels like a bad mosquito bite."

Soon enough, we were heading back into the parlor. I volunteered to go first. And when needle was finally put to skin, I learned something. That man was a liar. Because it didn't feel like a bug bite. It _fucking hurt_.

An agonizingly long fifteen minutes later, my mom and I left the parlor, so our artist could clean up before her tattoo was done. Outside, she smoked a cigarette to calm herself, and asked me what it was like.

I lied.