Chapter 6 The Nonexistent Tattoo

# Chapter 6: The Nonexistent Tattoo

Rowan returns from Chicago with a renewed energy that sets me on edge. He brings gifts—expensive chocolates, a silk scarf, and a first-edition neuroscience text I mentioned wanting months ago. His attentiveness feels calculated, especially when he casually asks about my activities during his absence.

"Just resting, mostly," I lie, meeting his eyes with practiced innocence. "Helen kept me company. How was the symposium?"

"Productive." He unpacks his suitcase with methodical precision. "I presented our—my research on neural pathway reconstruction. Received an offer to collaborate with MIT."

"That's wonderful," I say, noting his slip. Our research. What role did I play in his work before my supposed breakdown?

For three days, I maintain the performance of gradual recovery while secretly planning my next move. The mirror writing, the reversed fingerprints, the glimpse of a tattoo that should not exist—all point to something beyond ordinary deception or mental illness. I need answers from someone outside Rowan's sphere of influence.

My opportunity comes when Rowan mentions a name I recognize from his mirror-written journal—the tattoo artist who supposedly inked the snake on my collarbone. According to one entry, "Subject F repeatedly returned to Indigo after each memory reset, drawn to the tattoo artist despite complete removal of related memory triggers."

"I'm thinking of getting a small tattoo," I tell Rowan over dinner, watching his reaction carefully. "Nothing elaborate—maybe just a simple symbol on my wrist. I saw a place called Indigo Ink downtown that has good reviews."

His fork pauses halfway to his mouth, a flicker of alarm crossing his face before he controls it. "Tattoos? You've always been opposed to permanent body modifications. And with your skin allergies—"

"People change," I interrupt smoothly. "And I've been on antihistamines for my recovery anyway. The perfect time to test if I'm still allergic."

"I don't think it's wise during your recovery," he counters. "Perhaps in a few months, when you're more stable."

"It would help me feel like myself again," I push, playing the mental health card I know he can't easily dismiss. "Taking control of my body after everything that's happened."

He studies me for a long moment. "I can't stop you, but I'd prefer to go with you. Some of these places aren't sanitary, and with your compromised immune system—"

"Actually," I cut in, "I've already made an appointment for tomorrow. While you're teaching. Helen said she'd drive me."

This is a lie—Helen knows nothing about my plans—but it forces Rowan's hand. Either he trusts me with this small freedom, or he reveals how tightly he needs to control my movements.

After a tense silence, he nods. "Fine. But start with something small. And make sure they use hypoallergenic ink."

The next morning, after Rowan leaves for the university and before Helen is due to arrive, I take a rideshare downtown to Indigo Ink. The shop occupies the ground floor of a converted Victorian, its windows decorated with flash art and neon signs. It doesn't look familiar, but according to Rowan's notes, I've been here multiple times—each visit erased from my memory afterward.

A bell jingles as I enter. The reception area is clean and professional, with portfolios of the artists' work displayed on sleek digital tablets. A woman with vibrant blue hair and full sleeve tattoos looks up from the desk.

"Welcome to Indigo. Do you have an appointment?"

"No," I admit. "I'm hoping to speak with the owner. Marcus, is it?"

Something shifts in her expression—recognition, perhaps, or wariness. "Marcus is with a client. I'm Dani, the manager. Can I help you?"

I hesitate, unsure how much to reveal. "This is going to sound strange, but I think I may have been tattooed here before. A snake design, on my collarbone. But I have no memory of it."

Dani's professional smile doesn't waver, but her eyes dart briefly to a security camera in the corner. "We maintain detailed records of all our clients. What's your name?"

"Faye Harlow."

She types on her tablet, then frowns. "I'm not seeing any record of work done for you. Are you sure it was this location?"

"Positive." I lean closer, lowering my voice. "Look, I know how this sounds, but I have reason to believe I've been here multiple times, and that someone has been altering my memories afterward. I need to speak with Marcus."

Dani's expression hardens. "Ms. Harlow, we take client confidentiality very seriously. If you're experiencing memory issues, perhaps you should—"

"Is there a problem, Dani?" A deep voice interrupts.

I turn to see a tall man with gray-streaked dreadlocks and intricate geometric tattoos covering his visible skin. His dark eyes assess me with immediate recognition.

"Marcus," I say, though I have no conscious memory of meeting him. "You know who I am, don't you?"

He exchanges a look with Dani, who quietly retreats to the back room. "You should leave, Faye. Now."

"Not until you tell me the truth. Did you tattoo a snake on me? Here?" I pull aside my shirt collar, revealing my bare collarbone.

Marcus stares at the unblemished skin, his expression unreadable. After a long moment, he sighs. "Follow me."

He leads me through the shop to a private studio in the back, closing the door firmly behind us. The walls are covered with elaborate designs—predominantly reptiles and amphibians rendered in stunning detail. One drawing immediately catches my eye: a snake coiled around a woman's shoulders, its head resting above her heart. The woman's face is mine.

"You did tattoo me," I whisper.

"Three times," he confirms, crossing his arms. "And three times you returned, with no memory of the previous visits, your skin pristine as if I'd never touched it."

"That's impossible. Tattoo removal leaves scarring, and it takes multiple sessions over months—"

"Tell that to your husband," Marcus interrupts. "After your second visit, he came here with medical documentation claiming you had a rare condition that caused your body to reject and absorb tattoo ink completely within days. Asked me to keep trying with different formulations."

"And you believed him?"

"I'm an artist, not a doctor." He shrugs. "The documentation looked legitimate. Plus, he paid triple my usual rate for the trouble."

I struggle to process this information. "So you tattooed me three separate times, and each time the ink disappeared? Didn't that seem suspicious?"

"Of course it did. That's why I started documenting everything." He moves to a filing cabinet, unlocking it with a key from his pocket. "After your third visit, when you again had no memory of me or the previous tattoos, I knew something wasn't right."

He hands me a folder containing photographs—me in his chair, at different times judging by my changing hairstyles, always getting the same snake design on my collarbone. In the photos, I look relaxed, even happy, chatting with Marcus as he works.

"I don't remember any of this," I say, my voice shaking.

"I figured as much when you walked in today with that lost look." He sits on his stool, studying me. "After your third visit, I did some digging. Your husband is that hotshot neuroscientist, right? Working on memory manipulation or some sci-fi shit?"

I nod, still staring at the photos.

"Well, after you left last time, I found this." He pulls out one more photo—a close-up of my collarbone after the tattoo was completed. In the corner of the image, partially visible, is a piece of paper with handwritten notes.

I lean closer, recognizing Rowan's handwriting: "7th memory implant, tattoo theme: possession."

"I didn't take that photo," Marcus says. "Your husband did, when he came to 'check on your progress.' He left his notes behind accidentally. When I saw that, I knew something fucked up was happening."

"Did you confront him?"

"I tried calling the number he left, but it was disconnected. I considered going to the police, but what would I say? That a scientist was experimenting on his wife's memory? With what proof? These photos could easily be dismissed as Photoshopped."

I touch my collarbone again, trying to reconcile the images with my unmarked skin. "Why a snake? Did I choose that design?"

"No. He was very specific about the design, the placement, even the colors. Said it was significant to your relationship." Marcus hesitates. "The last time you were here, you said something strange while under the needle. You asked me if I believed in 'the other side of the mirror.'"

A chill runs through me. "What did I mean?"

"I assumed you were talking about alternate realities or some philosophical bullshit. You said you'd seen yourself on the other side, but not yourself—a version that was 'more real than this puppet I'm forced to be.' Then you started crying. I stopped tattooing, but you insisted I finish, saying 'she needs to be able to get through.'"

The snake. A way for my "mirror self" to cross over? The notion sounds insane, yet after everything I've discovered, I can't dismiss it.

"Can I take these photos?" I ask.

Marcus hesitates. "They're my only insurance if things go south." After a moment's consideration, he adds, "I can make copies. But Faye? Be careful. Your husband came back after your last visit, asking about a basement room for 'private consultations.' Offered a lot of money."

"Did you agree?"

"Hell no. But I did some checking afterward—turns out he rented space in the building next door. Underground level. Got some heavy equipment delivered there too."

My pulse quickens. "Can you show me?"

Ten minutes later, we're standing in an alley behind the neighboring building. Marcus points to a service entrance with a keypad lock.

"That's as far as I can take you," he says. "I've got clients waiting. But Faye? Whatever's going on, it's not right. If you need help, come back. I've got a friend in the police department who might listen."

After he leaves, I examine the keypad. Six digits, just like Rowan's safe. On a hunch, I enter the date from the ring: 070923. The lock clicks open.

The stairwell descends into darkness, illuminated only by dim emergency lighting. At the bottom, another keypad-locked door blocks my path. I try the same code—no success. After several attempts with significant dates, I try the number of electrodes in my brain: 321321. The door opens.

The room beyond is small but well-equipped—a clinical space with a tattoo chair, medical equipment, and a computer workstation. Along one wall are refrigerated storage units labeled with dates and cryptic codes. I open one, finding vials of blue-tinged liquid that matches what I vomited in our bathroom.

The computer is password-protected, but Rowan's pattern of using significant numbers gives me hope. After several failed attempts, I try "MIRROR" translated to numbers: 647767. The screen unlocks.

Folders of data appear—medical records, brain scans, and video files organized by date. I click on one labeled with yesterday's date, surprised to find it's surveillance footage of our home—specifically, the bathroom mirror. The video shows me examining my reflection, discovering the hidden medicine cabinet, finding the scalpel.

He's been watching me. Even when he was in Chicago.

I open another video file from three weeks ago—the night I allegedly killed Rowan. The footage shows our bedroom, where I'm sleeping peacefully. At 2:17 AM, I sit up abruptly, eyes still closed, and walk to the bathroom. Inside, I stand before the mirror, staring at my reflection with an intensity that's disturbing even on the grainy footage.

Then something impossible happens. My reflection moves independently, raising its hand to the mirror's surface while my actual body remains still. I watch in disbelief as my sleeping self suddenly jolts, as if receiving an electric shock, then reaches up to my right temple. Blood begins to trickle down my face as I dig my fingers into my skin, extracting what looks like a small metal object—one of the electrodes.

Alarms sound on the surveillance system. Moments later, Rowan rushes into the bathroom, finding me convulsing on the floor. He administers an injection, and my body goes still. The video ends.

I sit back, stunned. This contradicts both my memory of stabbing Rowan and his claim that I simply stopped taking medication. Something happened that night involving the mirror, the electrodes, and my supposed other self.

I search through more files, finding a folder labeled "DNA PROFILES." Inside are comparative analyses of genetic material—all mine, according to the labels, but with subtle variations highlighted in different colors. One file includes a photograph of a tattoo needle under a microscope, its tip coated with what appears to be DNA-infused ink.

They weren't just tattooing me with ink. They were tattooing me with genetically modified material.

A final folder catches my eye: "PROJECT MIRROR - PHASE 3." Inside is a single document—a research proposal authored jointly by Rowan Harlow and someone named Dr. Eleanor Faye, with my photograph attached to the latter name.

The abstract chills me to the bone:

"Following successful neural mapping and electrode implantation in both subjects, Phase 3 will attempt complete consciousness transfer between primary and mirror subjects using the DNA-bridge methodology established in Phase 2. If successful, this will represent the first documented case of full neural integration between original and mirror counterparts, effectively merging two distinct consciousness structures into a single optimized entity."

The document is dated three years ago—around the time Rowan claims my mental illness began. But the woman in the photograph labeled "Dr. Eleanor Faye" is undeniably me, though with subtle differences—her hair is darker, her posture more confident, and visible at the edge of her lab coat collar is the beginning of a snake tattoo.

The sound of the outer door opening interrupts my investigation. Someone is coming. I quickly close the files and shut down the computer, looking frantically for a place to hide. The only option is behind a storage cabinet near the back wall.

I squeeze into the space just as the inner door opens. Through a narrow gap, I watch as a lab-coated figure enters—Dr. Norris, the man who whispered to me in the hospital. He moves directly to the refrigerated storage, removing several vials of the blue liquid and placing them in a secure transport case.

As he works, he speaks into a recording device: "Transition markers detected in primary subject's system. Mirror bleeding accelerating despite suppression protocol. Recommend immediate extraction of secondary anchor point before complete integration. Harlow is losing control of the situation."

He finishes packing the case, then pauses, looking around the room as if sensing another presence. For a terrifying moment, his gaze seems to fix directly on my hiding place. Then his phone rings.

"Yes?" he answers. "No, she hasn't been here. Security system would have alerted us." He listens for a moment. "I understand. I'll bring the stabilization serum directly to your location. Have the extraction team ready."

After he leaves, I wait several agonizing minutes before emerging from my hiding place. My mind reels with implications. Dr. Eleanor Faye—a version of me from the other side of the mirror? Neural integration? DNA bridges? It sounds like science fiction, yet the evidence surrounds me.

I need to leave, to process what I've learned, but first I grab one of the vials of blue liquid and a printout of the DNA analysis I found. As I turn to go, my gaze falls on a small safe in the corner, identical to the one in Rowan's closet. On another hunch, I try the mirror of the previous code: 767746.

The safe opens to reveal a stack of photographs—dozens of them, all showing me in various locations I don't remember visiting. In each image, I'm with someone who appears to be Rowan, but subtly different—his hair slightly longer, his smile more genuine than any I've seen on my Rowan's face. And in every photo, the snake tattoo is clearly visible on my collarbone.

The final photo shows both of us in lab coats, standing before a complex apparatus centered around an unusual mirror. We're both smiling, professional but intimate, holding a plaque that reads "Project Mirror: Phase 1 Completion - Dr. R. Harlow & Dr. E. Faye, 2020."

I turn the photo over. On the back, in handwriting identical to mine but with subtle differences, is a message:

"If you're reading this, you've started to remember. The tattoo is the key—it's not just ink, but a bridge between our worlds. He'll try to convince you you're insane, but trust the reflection. I'm waiting on the other side. -E"