Black script tattoo reading Band-aids don't fix bullet holes on the inner forearm, just above a brown leather watch strap.

Band-aids don't fix bullet holes script on wrist

Lettering · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A handwritten-style quotation in black ink runs across the inner forearm in two lines, reading Band-aids don't fix bullet holes. The letters have a flowing script form with varied line weight and a slightly soft, fading edge. The arm rests on a patterned purple and cream rug, with a brown leather watch strap crossing the wrist.

Lettering Forearm Quote Text

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The boy came over the garden wall at dusk with his shirt torn open and one hand pressed flat against his ribs, and Hester Quill, who had kept the bees at Lower Garth for forty winters, did not ask him who had fired. She sent him to the pump first, then sat him on an upturned bucket beside the hives and fetched her tin. Inside were sticking plasters, a roll of linen gone yellow at the edges, a stone jar of honey and a fistful of dried comfrey. She laid them out on the step in the order she would need them, the way her mother had taught her, and told him that plasters were for thorns, nettles and the odd bee sting.

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"This is not a thorn," the boy said, looking at her as though she had insulted him.

"No," said Hester. "Then you'll want the surgeon from across the river, and he won't cross before the tide turns. Until then you'll keep still and keep the honey where it belongs." She packed the wound with linen and talked to him about the weather so he would not have to listen to his own breathing.

The lanterns came up the lane an hour after the stars had settled. Three men stood at the gate and asked after a boy with a torn shirt. Hester wiped her hands on her apron, looked at them over her spectacles and said that the only thing that had come over her wall that evening was a swarm, and it had gone north towards the willows. They believed her because she had never once lied about bees.

In the morning the boy was gone and the tide had turned. Hester found the flattened bullet lodged in the mortar of the wall, a neat dark hole where the lichen had been scraped away. She pressed a root of comfrey into the gap, packed it with wet clay and watered it from the can. By August the comfrey had knitted the stone over, and nobody in Lower Garth could say which of the two had done the mending.