Side-by-side before and after photos of a red floral tattoo with dark green shading on a person's upper back, which is fully gone in the after image.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Floral tattoo before and after removal on upper back

Botanical · Back · Colour · Photo

A split image with two photos of the same upper back, taken from behind with the head partly visible. The left shows a large floral tattoo on the shoulder blade, with red and pink blossoms, dark green leaves and thin vine linework, while the right shows the skin clear. The lighting is soft and the composition is close and centred, with BEFORE and AFTER labels on each side.

Botanical Back Flower Floral Leaves Vine Before and after

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The rose came off the cottage wall in the last week of February, which my mother said was the only sensible month to undo anything. Dad had planted it the spring I was born, a red climber he trained up the south gable with garden twine and muttered curses, and for forty years it bloomed so thickly in June that the brick beneath went pink. Then the damp found its way behind the render, and the man from the parish council came up the lane with a clipboard and a face like a wet Sunday.

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He said the roots had got into the mortar and the whole thing would have to go. So Tom Ashby and I spent three days on ladders with secateurs and a stiff broom, cutting the stems back to grey wood and peeling the runners off the gutter and the sills. The blooms had long gone by then, but the leaves were still that dark, glossy green, and every cut released a smell like crushed pennies and summer. Tom hummed while he worked. I didn't ask him to stop.

On the fourth morning the wall was bare. I stood at the gate with a mug going cold in my hands and looked for the rose and couldn't find it. What was left was a shape: a paler, mottled patch of brick and render, the exact sprawl of the plant, leaves and tendrils and all, as if the wall had kept a copy of the thing it had worn for decades.

I didn't replant at the foot of the house. I walked down the lane to the hedge where the wild clematis had been trying to climb the old oak, and I took a single cutting, wrapped it in damp newspaper and carried it home like a letter I hadn't decided to send. Mum would have said the rose was finished. She'd have been half right. I pushed the cutting into the bare soil by the gate and pressed the earth down with my thumbs, and in the corner of my eye the pale shape on the wall looked, for a moment, as though it was waiting to climb again.