Black and grey realistic tattoo of a face with dark eyes and cracked skin texture across the back of a hand, shown in Realism style on the hand.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Realistic face tattoo on the back of a hand

Realism · Hand · Black and grey · Photo

A realistic portrait of a face with large dark eyes and a rippled, wavy-lined mouth fills the back of the hand, with a cracked, peeling skin effect spreading out over the knuckles and wrist. The shading uses smooth gradients for the face and stippled dark marks for the surrounding texture, giving strong contrast. The image is in black and grey on a plain, softly lit background and is framed straight on to show the full design.

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Mercy Vane kept the plaster in a tin on the windowsill, where the damp could not get at it. Every drowned man who came up on the Orford shingle had his face taken before the parish buried him, and every face went into the tin the same way: a skin of grease, a layer of wet plaster, a count of sixty, then the slow peel. The men came out looking surprised. The women who came to see them looked relieved, mostly.

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The winter the girl came up, nobody could say her name. She had no grease-stain on her and no coat. Mercy took the cast anyway, and the face came away with a crack running from brow to cheek, as if it had been dropped. That night Mercy woke with her right hand cold and aching, and when she held it to the lamp the skin across the back of it had split along the knuckles, and under the split a face was looking up at her, dark-eyed, its mouth wrinkled with a ripple of little waves.

She tried the sea first, carrying the tin to the tideline at low water and tipping it out. The plaster sank, but the face did not, and it came back to her hand by morning, a little wetter each time. The old women said the girl wanted to be seen by someone who would not look away, so Mercy stopped looking away. She sat each evening with her hand flat on the table and talked to it about the boats and the price of coal, until the mouth loosened and the lines of it went slack, and the sea beyond the glass finally lay still.

Now when a stranger takes her hand to pay for a loaf, they feel only a rough patch of skin, cracked like a dry riverbed. Mercy keeps the girl's cast in the tin, and the tin on the sill, and says nothing about the face that still turns, very slightly, towards the window when the tide is coming in.

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