Black script lettering reading Trust your struggle across the upper chest below the collarbone, in a lettering style.

Script lettering along a collarbone

Lettering · Chest · Black and grey · Photo

A close-up of a shirtless upper chest showing the words Trust your struggle in black cursive script, running diagonally along the collarbone. The lettering has smooth, confident strokes with varied thickness and flourished capitals. The image is black and grey, with soft natural lighting on the skin and the head cropped out of frame.

Lettering Chest Script Lettering Phrase Collarbone

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Now sit down, you, and mind the crisps, because this is the story of Fenwick House and the lift that wouldn't go. Fourteen floors of concrete on the edge of Salford, and that lift had been broken since the winter of the big snow. Nobody could remember a time it worked, but everybody could remember the swearing.

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Old Mrs Kaur on the ninth floor had a bad hip and a shopping trolley with a squeaky wheel, and every Thursday she climbed those stairs one landing at a time, counting under her breath. Her grandson, Danny Okafor, nineteen and far too grand for stairs, carried her bags up behind her and complained the whole way. On the seventh landing somebody had scratched a line into the paint with a door key, and beneath it, in looping letters with a fancy capital T, were the words Trust your struggle. Nobody knew who wrote them. The council painted over them twice, and twice they came back, a little fainter and a little more stubborn.

One Thursday in February Danny stopped at that landing and said, Nan, that's daft, isn't it? A struggle's just a struggle. She stopped too, breathing hard, and gave him the look she kept for bus timetables she didn't believe. The lift's not going to save you, love, she said. Your legs will. Then she took his arm, and they went on up, one step and then the next, past the eighth floor and the faded graffiti, until they reached the ninth.

When the door opened, the flat smelled of cumin and warm bread, and her neighbour Mr Dowd was waiting on the mat in his slippers. He looked at Danny's red face and said, Did she make you walk again? Danny nodded. Good, said Mr Dowd. Nobody in this block ever got anywhere by being carried.