Black and white photo of a fine line script tattoo reading freedom is mine along the inner forearm and wrist.

Script quote on the inner wrist

Fine line · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A close photograph of a hand and forearm with a thin, handwritten script tattoo that reads freedom is mine, running diagonally from the wrist up towards the elbow. The linework is fine and even, in solid black ink with no shading, and the lettering has a flowing, cursive character. The image is black and white, and the background is a dark knitted jumper with large white lettering and a printed tower motif.

Fine line Lettering Forearm Script Handwritten text Quote Freedom

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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

Right, sit down, the lot of you, and stop pretending you don't remember the Paris trip. Nineteen seventy-four, the coach gave out outside Dover and Mr Hartley made us sing hymns until the breakdown man turned up. Some of you think it was Miss Gale who made the speech on the Eiffel Tower steps. It was not. It was Carol Benney, with a biro held in her teeth and a jumper she'd knitted herself, PARIS across the front in letters that never quite lined up.

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She'd been caught forging her mother's signature on a permission slip, and the slip was the least of it. Her mother had refused outright, then rung the school at half past eight the night before to say she'd changed her mind, and Carol never did find out which of them had won. Standing on those cold steps, she pulled the biro from her teeth, uncapped it, and wrote the words on the inside of her wrist so she couldn't lose them: freedom is mine. We all thought it was daft. Mr Hartley said it was an impertinence and told her to scrub it off before the lunch queue, and she didn't, because ink that's gone under the skin doesn't come off with carbolic.

The rest of that week she kept her sleeve pushed up, showing it to anyone who'd look. We walked along the Seine, we ate crêpes that tasted of cardboard, and on the last night she sat on the coach steps reading her own wrist aloud like a prayer until Mr Hartley told her to get inside.

So don't go looking for her at the bar tonight. Carol's by the window with her back to the room, and when the door opens she lifts her arm just a little, the way you would to hail a taxi, and the faded words go with it.