“Six years.”
“What made you join?”
“Needed discipline.”
She glances up at me, then back to her work. “That’s it? Just needed discipline?”
“Yeah.”
“What branch?”
“Marines.”
“Were you always a sniper?”
“No. Started as an infantryman. Then I showed aptitude for long-range. They trained me.”
Another glance. She’s trying to understand me and pull more out of me than the bare minimum I give everyone else.
“What made you leave?”
“My contract was up.”
“But you could have re-enlisted.”
“Could have.”
“So why didn’t you?”
I’m quiet for a moment, feeling the needle drag across my skin, creating art from pain.
“Got tired of being told who to kill,” I say finally.
She stops tattooing and looks at me fully. “Is that why you joined the club? So you could choose?”
“Maybe.”
“That’s not really an answer.”
“It’s the only one you’re getting.”
She studies my face, searching for something I’m not going to give her. Then she goes back to tattooing.
“What about this one?” She gestures to the military insignia on my shoulder without stopping her work. “What does it mean?”
“Service.”
“And this one?” She nods toward the dog tags inked on my ribs.
“Brothers I lost.”
“The skull on your forearm?”
“First confirmed kill.”
She’s quiet for a while after that, just the buzz of the machine filling the silence.
I watch her work, the way her lips press together when she’s concentrating on a difficult line, the way her eyes narrow slightly as she switches ink colors.
