Colour tattoo of a cartoon rabbit-eared figure in sunglasses and a white top with a double-C logo, on the inner forearm of a person wearing a checked shirt.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Cartoon rabbit character on a forearm

Forearm · Mixed · Photo

A cartoon figure with long rabbit-style ears, round sunglasses and a white top bearing a double-C logo and short lettering stands in a blue skirt. The figure is drawn with dark uniform outlines and flat fills, with no shading. Red, yellow, blue and black ink appear on pale skin, and the tattoo is shown centred on the forearm against a car interior.

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Nobody on the ward night shift wears sunglasses after midnight except me, and that is the first thing Sister Okafor says when I clock in at the linen cupboard. She has a point. The fluorescent tubes outside Ward 7 hum like they are sulking, and my ears, which are long, white and deeply unsuited to hospital corridors, keep catching on the swing doors.

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My job is counting sheets and pretending the trolley wheels do not squeak on purpose. Blue skirt, white top, the lettering across my chest that Bev from pharmacy says is a perfume name nobody can pronounce. I tell her it is pronounced expensively. At three in the morning a man in bay four asks if I am the rabbit from the Easter poster. I say no, I am the Easter poster's better-dressed cousin, and he laughs until his monitor beeps.

Around four the lift jams between floors two and three with Mr Haddow's wheelchair in it and me holding a box of paper gowns. We wait. I hum something I half remember from a radio. When the engineer finally prises the doors apart, he finds me sitting on the box with my sunglasses pushed up, reading the emergency phone instructions aloud to a rattled porter who has never once asked my name.

Haddow does ask, on the way down the corridor, and I tell him Number Two, which is the nearest thing I have to a name. He writes it on the back of his discharge form as if it were a diagnosis.

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