[ WP ] Everyone is born with a unique tattoo on their ankle . Whenever you 're responsible for someone 's death , a copy of their tattoo appears somewhere on your skin . Your best friend 's tattoo just showed up on your wrist , even though your best friend is alive and sitting right next to you .

As I watched her trembling hand delicately pick up her Styrofoam cup, as if it would shatter into pieces were she to clasp to tight, and bring it to her lips I thought about our past. I thought about the mornings when she would get dressed infront of me, covering the scatterplot of tattoos on her body one article at a time. When we were together these tattoos were distinct, clear, intelligible, but now, well now I have to scan for patches of Daisy's original skin. 
 
 She was absolutely beautiful, the type of beautiful that could get paid just for being that beautiful. She did n't want that though, infact it disgusted her. She never completely told me what happened but through the small snippets into her past that she granted me, I could piece together a broken image of a man that felt as though he was entitled to her beauty, so he took it from her. After that, she had no interest in being considered beautiful by anyone ever again. 
 
 Daisy became a hospice nurse and a damn good one at that. She had a warmth to her that was incomparable. It would soothe aching, arthritic bones, and cold, lonely shivers. She was there for all the patients in her wing, knew them by name, knew them intimately, and would come to know their tattoo as well. She had so much love in her, it was just never supposed to be romantic. 
 
 I continued staring at her hands, and I though about the only other time I saw them trembling so furiously. It was one month before our anniversary and she came home a mess, crumbled into our bed sobbing. She did n't usually react that way to a death, so I just held her. I held her until the sobbing slowed and I noticed her hand, bruised and bloodied at the knuckles. I was terrified about what could have happened, and remained terrified until Daisy calmed enough to tell me. 
 
 `` Charlotte should be hung by her neck and picked at by,, by,, big,, picky birds with big picky beaks!'' Still cracks me up to think about that dirty, horrible, monstrous curse. From what Daisy told me, another nurse that worked in the elder care ward named Charlotte and her never saw eye to eye. Being that Daisy often times the two wings would have to be a little symbiotic Daisy saw far too much of Charlotte for her likely. Daisy believed the elderly patients always came in a little worse off than they should have after being in hospital pre hospice for the previous few months. That night Daisy had proof. She was walking to her break when she ran into Charlotte when she noticed a poorly covered up tattoo on her neck, a tattoo that matched the invalid man with more bedsores that digits and no reason to be in the hospital other than a fractured family. Daisy was livid, she did n't tell me about the punch but I like to imagine it was a big ol' Muhammad Ali one hitter. The next week we decided to split up. As I said, she had so much love, it was just never meant to be romantic. We stayed close, always, hell my wife probably loves her more than I do. 
 
 They say she only has about a month left, and Doctor Peterson said he would receive the tattoo if need be. I told him there was no need, I would happily receive her little flower shaped tattoo when the time is right. I just hope it does n't show up on my forehead. Daisy was always one to play jokes.
