Black script lettering reading Heartless across the finger of a hand with pink nails, set against dark denim.

Heartless script tattoo on a finger

Lettering · Hand · Black and grey · Photo

The word Heartless is written in a flowing black script across the middle finger, with the letters running along the length of the digit. The linework is clean and the ink appears solid black with no visible shading or colour. The hand rests on dark denim, and a small coloured tattoo is partly visible on a neighbouring finger near the nail.

Lettering Hand Script Word Finger Lettering

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The letter came aboard at Falmouth in the pilot's bag, addressed to Second Mate Cass Holloway in a hand he knew too well, and he did not open it until the Azores were a grey smudge astern. The wind had backed into the south-west and the Annabel Rose was making nine knots under topsails, her deck canting like a slate roof. He sat on the hatch coaming with the envelope on his knee and read it twice.

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It said, in part, that he had left without a word and the landlady had sold his chair. His father's boat was up on blocks at Mevagissey and nobody would touch the engine. Nell had heard what he called her in the Ship Inn, that she was heartless, and she had turned the word over every night since. If it was true, he should say so plainly and she would stop writing. If it was not, he should come home and prove it. She signed it with only her first name, the way she always had.

He had said it because it was easier than saying he was frightened. Nell would have known that. She had always known, which was the trouble. He looked at the sea, which was doing nothing remarkable, just heaving itself into long hills the colour of pewter, while the cook below sang something about a drowned sailor's sweetheart, badly, and the bosun's whistle called the watch to the braces.

At eight bells he went to the chart room and opened the ship's log at the page for the day. Wind SW, fresh, sea moderate. Course 042. Under remarks there was room for one line. He wrote it in his neatest copperplate: that he was not heartless, that he was sorry, and that the next port was Lisbon, where a letter could reach him care of the agents. He blotted the page, closed the book, and went up into the wind to take his watch.