[ WP ] A tattoo appears on your body , and at regular intervals you either find a new one or the old one expands .

Days pass. 
 
 One morning I wake up feeling like I had n't slept at all. The sun slants in through the windows, casting orange spears of light into the room that burn my eyes with intense heat. The air is stale, and as I rub my wrist against my face and try to lick the dryness out of my mouth I notice motes of dust floating through the air, cast up by my stirring. Something about the light and the heat in the room tells me that the sunbeams piercing the air are from a setting sun, not a rising one. I grunt and heave myself out of bed, my head swimming and swaying on top of a sore neck and aching body. 
 
 I stumble over to the bathroom - is this the bathroom? - and wrench open the door. The door is cheap and hollow, and it flies open at speed and *thumps* against the wall. The bathroom smells like stale urine, sweat, and bleach. My stomach churns, bile roiling through an otherwise empty space, and I try to recall just how much I drank last night as I lean over the sink and cup water into my hands. The cold soothes my burning skin, and I suck it through lips cracked like desert mud. I can feel the icy cold working its way down my throat to settle heavily in my stomach, filling the space with bloat. I know the water wo n't stay down for long, but it makes my head feel a little better. 
 
 I strip. I'm still wearing jeans, caked in sweat and grime and mud around the cuffs, and a badly ripped black tee that I do n't recognize. The clothes fall to the floor of the bathroom in a heap, and I kick them into the corner. The air makes me more aware of how sticky my skin is, and I shuffle into the shower and crank the water on. 
 
 Shampoo. Hands. Lather. Rinse. Soap. Washcloth. Chest. Body. Crotch. Feet. My thoughts drop in rivulets through an otherwise foggy mind. What happened last night? I open my mouth and crane my neck so the shower points directly at the back of my throat, and I end up gargling out warm, slightly-chemical-tasting water in huge splats onto my chest and the shower floor. My back itches, and I reach back to scratch it, but the itch does n't go away. 
 
 I climb out of the shower and reach for a towel. It smells like mildew but I use it anyway, no other options immediately present. My back still itches and I scratch it again. It feels burnt, like a sunburn or a bad rash. I spin and look over my shoulder, my puffy red eyes aching in protest at being asked to turn so far. 
 
 A tattoo. What? It's something black and small - a shape maybe, it's hard to see. Jesus. I scratch at it again, both because it itches and because I can hardly believe it's really there. But I can feel it, burned into my skin like a brand, a twinge that is all too hard to ignore. 
 
 `` Fuck me,'' I mutter to the bedraggled naked man in the mirror. `` Fuckin' hell.'' 
 
 I stalk out of the bathroom, feeling better but still not good. Get a cup of water and sip at it gingerly. A few minutes later I have to run back to the bathroom and vomit it all back up, along with a healthy amount of sticky green bile and stomach acid. It burns my throat on the way back up and I cough a little, and the cough makes my lungs hurt. 
 
 My phone buzzes. I have to dig through a pile of blankets before I find it. A text. Paulo. 
 
 `` You know the place. 10PM.'' 
 
 I sigh, not sure if I'm up for it tonight but knowing that I'll go anyway. I look at the sun setting outside the window, the orange glow fading over the tops of the gray shingles and flat-topped buildings outside. I get dressed, a different pair of jeans and a fresh shirt, open the door, and shut it behind me. 
 
 Days pass. 
 
 I wake up in a haze. Not my apartment. A girl, long hair tumbled over a naked back, breathes heavily in sleep beside me. I stand up, search out my boxers, put them on, and try to figure out which door is the bathroom. 
 
 The light is too bright, and I shield my eyes. I sit down on the toilet to pee, and the cool porcelain touches my back. It stings again. 
 
 I stand up, flush, and turn around in the mirror. Son of a bitch. 
 
 The tattoo is bigger, more abstract shapes and symbols, nothing I can place with any meaning. Squares and circles interlock, colors mix together inside them. 
 
 `` Shit,'' I say to the mirror. The man looking back at me is pale and sickly, like he has n't eaten in days. My stomach rumbles. I walk back into the room - the apartment is a studio, and I can see the girl's head - what was her name? Does she have a name? - and proceed to gather up my things. It's still early, maybe I can catch breakfast. 
 
 I walk out the door quietly, not waking the sleeping girl with the long brown hair, and down the stairs. I feel for my phone and find it in my pocket. I feel for my wallet and find it missing. 
 
 `` Fuck,'' I mutter and turn around. Each step is a mountain, and my thighs are tight by the time I get back to the landing that I'm pretty sure I just walked out of. I open the door quietly, glad I decided not to lock it, and find the girl sitting up in bed. 
 
 `` I forgot my wallet,'' I say. 
 
 `` No worries,'' she says. She's nude, her hair cascading down the front of her chest in long waves. `` Want some breakfast?'' 
 
 `` OK,'' I say, and she stands up and walks over to the kitchen area and pulls some cereal boxes out of a cupboard. Then she bends down into another cabinet and pulls out a cookie jar, reaches into it and pulls out a bag full of white powder and another full of white pills. 
 
 `` Oh, hey, that's OK, I'm...'' 
 
 `` No worries baby. I had fun last night.'' She has a nice smile, big and charming, eyes that are somehow both knowing and innocent. `` I'd love to have some more fun,'' she says in a low voice, her fingers barely touching the edge of one of the plastic bags. 
 
 I grin, despite myself, and walk towards her. She comes out from around the counter, and somehow she already has one of the pills in her fingers, and she reaches up and places it on her tongue and then leans in, her skin warm in my hands... 
 
 Days pass. 
 
 I wake up on the floor. I pick my head up and feel a sticky residue on the corner of my mouth where I must have drooled. I can feel the impressions of the carpet fibers on my face, and as I look around I realize I'm back in my apartment again. 
 
 `` You're awake,'' I hear from behind me. I spin, too fast, and my vision blurs. I almost fall, but catch myself with one hand out. 
 
 Paulo. He grins at me from my bed, his hair standing up in every direction. `` I just got up too. I'm thrashed.'' 
 
 I stagger to my feet, my throat so dry that I'm unable to respond. Breathing feels like a chore. My whole body aches. And through it all, a familiar twinge in my back that I'm almost growing fond of. 
 
 `` Dude, you'll never believe what you did last night.'' 
 
 My hand reaches up and rubs at the spot on my back. It feels burnt, like sunburn. `` I think I can guess,'' I manage to say in a rasp. Paulo grins at me again and heaves himself up out of my bed. I see him look at his phone as he walks out the door, down the hall and into the kitchen. A moment later he returns with a glass in either hand, ice and fluid. I grab it and gulp it down, then nearly retch as the taste of vodka fills my mouth. 
 
 `` Hair of the dog, my man. Best way to get yourself feeling better.'' Paulo smiles that lopsided grin at me and downs his in one gulp, then spits an ice cube back into the glass. I frown, look down at my glass. 
 
 `` What the hell,'' I say, and toss it back. 
 
 Days pass.
