Black script lettering reading "We are the kids your parents warned you about" along the side of a ribcage, worn with a white open-back vest.

Script quote along the ribs

Lettering · Ribs · Black and grey · Photo

A side view of a torso with one arm raised, showing a black script quote on the ribs reading "We are the kids your parents warned you about", set in two lines of fine lettering. The ink is solid black with no shading or colour, and the wearer's face is not shown. The text sits diagonally across the skin, with a black mesh bra strap and a white open-back vest framing it against a plain pale wall.

Lettering Ribs Quote Script Text Word

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The yard light buzzes over the feed store and the puddles have skinned over with ice, so you walk on the frosted grass where it crunches less. Your mother's voice follows you from the kitchen window, the same three warnings she has given since you were nine: mind the ice, keep away from the bull in the top field, and don't get in cars with boys. You have a rucksack with two jumpers, a torch, and the cash from lambing week tucked inside a sock, and you have told nobody.

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Dad is in the barn with the ewes that won't stop coughing, a paraffin lamp hung from a nail. He doesn't look up. He says the bus from the crossroads runs twice on a Sunday, and you say you know, and he says you don't, not yet. You want to tell him he sounds like the leaflets in the vet's waiting room. Instead you take the spray can from the shelf where he keeps the ear-tag marker, and you shake it until the ball rattles loud enough to make the ewes look up.

On the side of the grain store, where the render has gone pale with frost, you write the line in small, careful capitals, because your handwriting has always been neater than your nerve. Each word hangs in the air for a moment in the cold, then thins out. Your breath is doing the same thing. By dawn your mother will have read it from the kitchen window, and she will know it is yours.

The bus lights come up the lane at ten past seven, two amber eyes through the hedge. You stand at the gate with the rucksack on one shoulder and the can cold in your coat pocket, and you do not look back at the wall until the doors fold open.