Realistic colour tattoo of a foetus inside a bloody, torn wound on the abdomen, shown with pale skin tones, red blood and dark shading.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Foetus in a torn wound on the abdomen

Realism · Other · Mixed · Photo

A photograph of a large tattoo on the side of a torso showing a foetus-like figure curled inside a torn, bloody wound. The figure and wound are rendered with smooth shading, fine detail on the skin texture and a strong three-dimensional effect. The palette is dominated by pinks, reds and greys, with dark shadow inside the opening.

Realism Other Blood Skin

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Dear Tom,

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You will think I've lost my wits, writing by post when we share the chapel bench on a Sunday, but I can't say this across the table with Mam listening. The seam at Gorse Level gave way on Thursday, a long cracked tongue of rock that came down the east face as if it had been waiting years for the shift to end. Dai Pritchard was at the bottom with the pony. He is bruised to the marrow but alright.

Last night, after the rescue men had cleared the fall, the deputy sent Ellis and me back in to mark the timbers. Past the third stall the face had split open in a round black mouth, and inside it, curled in the coal as though it had been tucked there on purpose, lay a small pale shape. I took it for a bundle of old sacking. Then the lamp swung and I saw it was a creature, smooth and grey and folded in on itself, one tiny hand against its cheek, as if it had slept through the whole collapse and didn't mean to wake for the men.

We left it where it lay. Ellis said the deputy would have it out for the scrap heap by morning. I told him the rock had kept it shut for a reason. I felt foolish saying it, and then I felt no more foolish than the rest of us, standing there with our helmets tipped back and nobody moving.

I am writing because I don't know who else to tell, and because the lamp is still in my hand as I write and I can't bring myself to put it out. Come up on your rest day. Bring Father's pocket knife for the timbers, and don't mention any of this to the overman.

Your loving sister, Nell