Enlarged with AI from a smaller original
Darth Vader helmet and Death Star on a thigh
Thigh · Colour · Photo
A bold, stylised Darth Vader helmet fills the centre of the image, rendered in purple and blue with black shading and white highlights. A red lightsaber runs diagonally down the left side, and a grey Death Star sits partly behind the helmet on the right. The tattoo is shown on skin against a dark background with a purple garment at the top edge.
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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction
The trolley with the wobbly front wheel always went to Bay Four last, because nobody wanted to push it through the double doors at three in the morning. Sister Maureen Okafor taught me the trick on my first Tuesday: hum under your breath so the squeak falls on the beat. By the end of the week I was humming the Imperial March without meaning to, and the nurses had started calling me Vader, which I took as a compliment.
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Kieran was eight and had been in since Sunday with a bad leg and a plastic helmet from the gift shop. The paint was purple, not black, because the shop had run out, and one ear had a dent from a fall off the bed. He wouldn't let anyone take it off for the observations. He wanted to know whether the Death Star had a bin, and whether a lightsaber made of a red bendy straw could cut through a drip stand. I told him it could cut through almost anything if you believed in it, and he gave me a look that said I was not as clever as I thought.
He fell asleep at half two with the helmet on his chest, its visor catching the orange light from the car park. I sat on the plastic chair and didn't move, because the wheel would have squeaked. Somewhere around five the cleaners started their radios and the window turned the colour of weak tea. Kieran woke, looked at me, then at the helmet, and asked if I was going to fix the trolley. I said no. Some things were better left squeaking, so you knew someone was coming.
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