Black and grey close-up photo of the words Bad Influence in script lettering tattooed on the chin below the lower lip.

Bad Influence script lettering on chin

Lettering · Other · Black and grey · Photo

A close-up black and white photograph shows the words Bad Influence written in handwritten script across the chin, below the lower lip and teeth. The lettering is drawn in solid black ink with a slightly uneven, brush-like stroke, and the skin around it is lightly stretched by fingers with black nail polish. The tight crop centres the text, with the hands framing the left and right edges of the frame.

Lettering Other Text Script Word

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The plum tree at the bottom of Mrs Ashdown's garden was not ours to climb, which is exactly why Jolene Price had you hoisting her up its trunk on the last Saturday of August, both of you barefoot, your gran's biscuit tin clanking against your hip like a dinner bell. Below, the greenhouse glittered. Beyond it, the dog next door started its long, disgusted barking, the one it saved for anybody it had decided was a thief.

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You were nine. Jolene was eleven and had already been thrown out of the Brownies over what she called a misunderstanding about a tent. She knew everything worth knowing about being bad. She told you that nobody ever got into trouble for things they hadn't enjoyed, that the trick was to look bored while you did them, and that if Mrs Ashdown came out with her broom you should say the plums had fallen on you, which was true, in a way.

Mrs Ashdown never came out. Jolene cut her shin on the guttering and bruised her elbow on the wall, and you came away with a tin full of plums so sour they made your back teeth ache. You ate them perched on the wall while the sun went down, spitting stones into the nettles, and Jolene scratched her name into the brick with a stolen stub of charcoal. Bad Influence, she said, grinning, and then made you swear it was the best thing anyone had ever written about her.

The wall is flats now and the tree is firewood. The tin still sits on your windowsill, its lid rusted at one corner. Some mornings you can almost smell that sourness on your fingers, and you catch yourself reaching for something you know you shouldn't have.