Pale outlined Roman numeral VII lettering tattoo on the inner wrist, with a hand held palm up and red nail polish visible.

Roman numeral VII on the inner wrist

Lettering · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A small Roman numeral VII is outlined on the inner wrist, with the ink appearing as a pale, almost white line rather than dark pigment. The letterforms have clean, even outlines with no shading, and the numeral sits centrally on the wrist above the palm. The skin is light, and the surrounding area shows a silver ring on the hand and red nail polish, with a carpeted floor and dark clothing in the background.

Lettering Forearm Roman numeral Numeral Outline

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Sit yourselves down on the kerb, the lot of you, and mind the gutter, for the rain has only just gone off the cobbles. I'll tell you about the lamp at the bottom of Tanner's Row, the one with the seven on its post. You'll not find that number on any council list. Old Mab Corrigan chalked it there the winter the gas board cut her wages in half, and she never once let anyone scrub it off.

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Mab had a rule for the lamps of Saltmarrow. Every post wore its number, stencilled in tin and outlined in white chalk, so the lamplighter could read it through the fog by the light of his shutter lantern. Six of them she did neat as a schoolmistress. The seventh she did slower, for it stood where the canal bent and the barges came in blind after dark. She drew those letters twice, once on the post and once on the brick wall beside it.

Then one February the seventh lamp gave out, and a lad called Tobias Nell came off a coal barge looking for the chandler's on Pitt Street. He lost his way in the murk, and the first thing he saw was that pale VII glowing on the brick where the light should have been. He followed it from wall to wall, the way a sailor follows a buoy, until it brought him to the chandler's door with its brass bell still swinging.

He came back the next winter with a tin of paint and a steady hand, and he touched up the numerals on every post from the bridge to the gasworks. Mab had been dead a year by then. Nobody ever asked him why he kept the seventh one the brightest of them all, and he never said.