Black and grey realistic eye tattoo on the back of a hand, with the fingers shaded solid black and skull-like details on the middle fingers.

Realistic eye tattoo on the back of a hand

Realism · Hand · Black and grey · Photo

A hand rests on a sheet of plastic wrap, showing a detailed eye tattoo on the back of the hand with shaded iris, lashes and a reflective pupil. The fingers are heavily packed with black ink, with grey skull-like forms visible on the middle fingers. The palette is entirely black and grey, and the shot is framed close on the hand with a partial forearm tattoo and a wristwatch at the edge.

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Nobody in Gwern Hollow trusted a man who kept his hands in his pockets underground, so my uncle Dafydd kept his in plain sight. By the spring of '58 the coal dust had worked so deep into his knuckles that the creases looked inked in biro, and he began putting an eye on the back of his right hand. He said it was for the roof. A deputy watches the timbers, he told us, and the timbers ought to know they're being watched.

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The fingers came after, one winter at a time. Black first, then the grey skulls he had Mrs Pryce's boy copy from a dead man's cigarette card, because the old fireman who taught him the trade had died under a fall at number three shaft and nobody had thought to carve his name properly. Dafydd would hold that hand up in the lamp room and the others would go quiet, the way chapel goes quiet before someone reads out a name.

The night of the Caer Dulas gas, he came up the shaft with his lamp in his good hand and the eye turned toward the cage, its pupil catching the light like wet slate. Forty-one men came up that shift. He counted every one of them aloud, tapping the back of his hand against the iron gate, and the eye blinked at each tap as the lamplight shifted. I still hear that tapping when the wind comes off the tip.

After the funeral they took the eye off the wall of the lamp room and gave it to me, because I was the only one who asked. I keep it wrapped in the cling film from the sandwich tins, which is the nearest thing to a proper shroud I could find, and every morning I unwrap it, look at it, and check the timbers myself.

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