Fine line black tattoo of a plaster with the words I WILL FEEL BETTER on the inside of a wrist, with a printed flash sheet behind.

Plaster with "I will feel better" on a wrist

Fine line · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A small black linework tattoo of an adhesive plaster with the words I WILL FEEL BETTER in block capitals sits on the inner wrist. The thin outlines have dot details across the plaster and a neat, even line weight. The photograph is taken against a white printed sheet of hand-drawn hearts, wreaths and lettering, and the tattoo is the only colour-free focus in the frame.

Fine line Lettering Forearm Lettering Text Dot Heart

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Take it to an artist as a reference. A good artist will make it yours rather than copy someone else's tattoo.

A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The runner beans had gone over by the second week of August, which is what happens when you leave Dennis in charge of them for a fortnight. He had tied the canes with baler twine in knots I could only undo with a fork, and forgotten the row by the compost bin entirely. I was on my knees in plot twelve with a trug and a bad temper when Callum came tearing down the path, holding his hand out in front of him as if it belonged to someone else.

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He had caught the back of his palm on a tin lid behind the shed, a long shallow line with the edges already pulling apart. I took him to the potting bench, where my sister's biscuit tin lives. Maureen ordered a box of novelty plasters from a joke shop in Margate years ago, for when people were being dramatic, and most of them are still in there with their slogans for birthdays nobody celebrates. Callum went through the lot with great seriousness before choosing the dotted one that said I WILL FEEL BETTER in capitals.

He wouldn't let me put it on the cut, which was too wet to hold anything, so I pressed it flat on the soft skin of his wrist instead. He read it out letter by letter, sounding out BETTER as if it were a sum he had to get right. "Is it true?" he asked. I said Maureen had ordered them to make herself laugh, not to make anybody else feel anything, and that the watering was the bit that mattered. He didn't believe me, but he took the trug.

By the next morning the plaster had gone soft at the edges and the cut had closed beneath it. Callum was on the bench with a ball of twine, working through Dennis's knots one at a time with his tongue between his teeth. The beans had lifted their heads overnight. He held one up to the light, the little plaster still on his wrist, and said the row needed doing before lunch.