Fresh and healed photos of a realistic colour tattoo of a woman with a finger to her lips and blood spatters on her face, on a forearm.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Realistic woman portrait with finger to lips on forearm

Realism · Forearm · Colour · Photo

A photo pair shows the same tattoo on a forearm, the left labelled Fresh and the right labelled Healed. The design is a realistic portrait of a woman with dark hair, her index finger pressed to her red lips, and red blood-like spatters across her face and hand. The shading is smooth and detailed, with vivid reds, purples and skin tones, and the portrait fills the frame.

Realism Forearm Woman Portrait Blood Hand Hair Eye

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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

By the time the second dog watch bell went, the galley floor had been mopped twice and the stain under the bread bin was still there, a rust-brown rose on the lino the shape of a thumbprint. You had told Aled to leave it. He wanted to scrub it with bleach and a wire brush, and you caught his wrist over the sink and said no, not tonight, let the men eat their stew and talk about the weather.

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Nobody on the Marigold asked what had happened in the bosun's locker. The cargo manifest said twelve crates of Tyneside pipe, the logbook said calm seas, and the second mate came up the companion way at six with fresh polish on his boots. You knew the rules of a small ship without anyone writing them down. Bread goes in the tin, knives go on the rack, and what you hear through the bulkhead stays on the far side of it.

Aled found you at the stove at midnight, stirring a pot of porridge nobody had ordered. He asked if you were all right, then asked again, louder, because the wind had picked up and the funnel was roaring. You turned around slowly. You lifted one finger to your lips, the way Mam used to do in chapel when the bairns giggled, and you held his eye until his face settled.

He nodded. He understood. Out on the black water the Marigold kept her course, the stain under the bread bin dried to the colour of old wine, and no one aboard ever spoke of it again.