Two photographs of a yellow and tan pyramid tattoo with a grid pattern and dark outline on a forearm, one close up and one wider.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Pyramid tattoo on a forearm

Geometric · Forearm · Colour · Photo

A pyramid is drawn with a dark outline and filled with a fine grid of lines that suggests stone or glass panels. The left photo is a close view of the inner forearm, and the right shows the same tattoo smaller on a person wearing a light blue top. Yellow and tan shading gives the faces a soft, lit look against the skin.

Geometric Forearm Pyramid Grid

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Every night at ten the porter Ifor Mabb pushed his trolley down the long corridor of the Royal Hollin and counted the floor tiles under his boots, because his grandmother had told him that a man who counts his steps is never lost in a building. Sixty-one tiles from the lift to the linen store. Past the linen store there were supposed to be only eleven more before the wall, but on the night the thaw came he reached twelve, and then a thirteenth, and a door stood where no door had ever been.

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Behind it a stair climbed through yellow sandstone, lit by tallow lamps set in the cracks. The steps were worn hollow in the middle, the way church steps are. At the top was a room shaped like the inside of a pyramid, its walls made of square glass panels set in a grid, and each panel held a faint light the colour of weak tea. Ifor knew what they were without being told. Each one belonged to someone on the wards who had not yet gone to sleep, or who had only just begun.

Bronwen from ward four had followed him up, sleeves rolled, a torch clamped in her teeth. She pointed at a panel in the third row where the light had gone grey as ash. The child in the bed beneath it had cried since supper and nobody could say why. Ifor took a lamp from the nearest step and set it into the empty square. The light caught and spread outward, row by row, until the whole pyramid hummed gold.

At six the trolley was back at the linen store with nothing on it but a dropped glove. On ward four a small girl sat up in bed and asked for toast, and her mother cried into her own hands. Ifor still counts the tiles on his way in each night. There are sixty-one, and he has never once found the thirteenth again, which his grandmother said was exactly how it ought to be.