The Snake Tattoo

I awake to see Tara’s pretty, larger-than-life face beaming at me from across the room. “Happy Birthday, Lil! I’m so excited!” She claps her hands together, blonde ponytail bouncing and swishing behind her. “The big 2-1! And I get to be the one to welcome you to the wonderful world of booze-fueled debauchery! I can’t wait to liberate you from your conservative little librarian shell.”

I groan. “First, I’m not up for debauchery of any kind. Second, I’m not a librarian; I’m studying Information Science.”

Tara’s eyes twinkle with mischief. “Right. So you’re a librarian wannabe. So much better. And you did put me in charge of birthday arrangements, Ms. Sibilman, so you’re just going to have to let me conjure up a little trademark Tara birthday magic.”

I had put her in charge. It’s true. And I’m seriously regretting that right now.

“Come on, Lil! Live a little. Just let me show you a good time. You only turn 21 once.” A hopeful nibble of her lower lip accompanies her pleading look.

I sigh, knowing that she will be crushed if I back out now. “Fine. I’ll go to your little party. And you can order me one shot. But that’s all.”

Tara’s smile is wicked as she bounces on the balls of her feet, her squealing celebration sending a pungent swirl of floral perfume my way. “Yay! We’re gonna have such a great time!” Three seconds later, she is on her phone, furiously notifying our friends about the imminent party.

***

As we pile into the Uber, Tara swears the driver to secrecy about our destination. After a good 45 minutes, watching trailer parks and half-collapsed shacks go by, I grow impatient. “Tara, where are you taking us? This is more like ax murder territory than a bar hopping scene.”

"Fine. Now that you can’t back out, I’ll spill.” She grabs my hands, eyes blazing with excitement. “Two words: biker bar."

I blink at her for a moment, then burst out laughing. "Of course! The natural habitat for a librarian wannabe."

"C’mon, Lil," Tara nudges me. "This’ll be so much more fun than reciting Thoreau at some lame-ass poetry reading."

"But I like Thoreau!" I protest, crossing my arms stubbornly.

“Just trust me on this one, Lil. I just know you’re secretly itching to let your inner bad boy fetish loose.”

I shake my head. “Some of us don’t have a thing for bad boys, Tare!”

“We’ll see…” Tara winks.

I growl in frustration as we pull up to our destination. It looks to be in only slightly better shape than some of the shacks along the highway. A row of black and chrome motorcycles of various shapes and sizes are lined up in the gravel parking lot outside.

“Real classy,” I grumble.

Tara doesn’t seem to notice. Instead, she grabs my arm and hauls me toward the door.

The moment we step into the bar, I’m hit with the sound of laughter and the heady aroma of spilled beer, cheap cologne, and… motor oil? Everywhere I turn, I get an eyeful of wildly creative facial hair, leather, and metal band logos. The jukebox in the corner is belting out some classic rock number that I vaguely recognize. The air vibrates with the wiggling hum of sweat-slicked, tattooed limbs in motion.

"Welcome to the den of hedonism, Lil," Tara exclaims, her voice barely audible over the din.

I take a deep breath, steadying my nerves. "You sure this isn't Dante's seventh circle?"

"We can only hope,” Tara laughs, a wicked gleam in her cerulean eye. “I’m certainly in the mood for some sin," Tara laughs. She waves over a bruiser of a bartender with a beard that could⁠—and quite possibly did⁠—house a family of squirrels.

“Whaddayawant?” he asks, his gravelly voice somehow turning four words into one.

“Champagne?” I say. That’s for celebrations, right?

The guffaw that erupts from the bartender’s lips sounds like the clatter of heavy machinery. “We got two kinds of drinks here, love. Beer and shots.”

“She’ll have a shot of your finest⁠ whatever,” Tara giggles, waving over more friends as they walk through the door. “And by finest, I mean cheapest.”

As Tara orders an unholy amount of shots, my gaze finds a tall man leaning against the bar. He’s maybe late twenties and gorgeous. Ebony locks cascade over intense aquamarine eyes to sculpted cheekbones. He’s clad in black leather pants that are tight in all the right places, and his sleeveless t-shirt shows off a snake tattoo that wraps around drool-worthy biceps to lick its forked tongue at the base of his neck. He looks dangerous. Forbidden.

I have the sudden desire to trade places with the snake.

Tara notices my stare, following my gaze to its sexy destination. "I knew it!” She flashes me a victorious grin. “You do like bad boys!"

"Define bad?" I shoot back weakly, feeling my cheeks heat under her knowing gaze.

Tara flicks her eyes toward the guy. “Him.”

As the shots arrive, I hedge. “Okay. Fine. I find one of these biker dudes attractive. One. I hardly think that⁠—”

Tara grabs one of the shots, lifting it high as she turns to our cluster of friends. "To Lillian! May your first taste of adulthood lead to a night of reckless decisions with no regrets!" Her toast is met with another chorus of cheers and the clinking of glasses.

I’m mortified as my friends cheer, casting a sidelong glance at yummy biker boy to them staring right back at me, amused. Great. Just great. He fucking heard her.

Suddenly inspired to drink, I grab a shot and down it. Suddenly, I feel like a dragon who just swallowed her flames down the wrong tube. I cough and hack and am pretty much certain I’m about to die. When it’s over, however, there is actually a pleasant warmth in my belly and growing fuzziness in my brain.

Tara hands me another glass, mischief dancing in her eyes.

I shook my head. "I said one shot, Tare. One.”

“You said I could order you one shot. This is Lucy ordering you one shot.” Tara forces the tiny glass into my reluctant fingers.

I glance at biker boy again. Fuck it. I down the second shot, making a face that probably looks like a toddler after her first taste of broccoli as another trail of fire slithers down my throat, but at least I manage not to regurgitate a lung this time. Tara gives me another shot to wash it down.

As the room begins to take on a pleasant tilt, I catch biker boy’s eye again. Is he still looking at me? I fight the oncoming blush. That’s not a bad thing, is it? Those eyes look so sexy, especially on top of all those delicious muscles.

As the night wears on, the combination of alcohol and anticipation have me as loose as I’ve ever been. The bar is so alive with raucous bustle, and it starts to feel kind of… right.

Biker boy chooses that moment to approach me. Up close, he's even more attractive. Or maybe that’s just the knee-weakening effect of his musky cologne. He introduces himself to me, voice deep, eyes glinting. "So… you must be Lillian."

His use of my name catches me off guard, and I find myself blushing. Damn these fair cheeks of mine! "Thanksh. Your biceps look pretty impreshive too," I said. Did I really just say that? In that Sean Connery slur? Good God.

He chuckles, a grin tugging at the corner of his lips. "Thanks." He flexes his muscles for effect. The ripple of his bulging bicep makes the snake tattoo almost seem to come to life. I stare in fascination at the snake… And, okay, fine⁠—at his arm too.

“You’ve had quite a few shots, haven’t you?” he says.

“How many ish ‘quite a few’?” I ask, staring at his lips as they purse in amused consideration. They’re really nice lips, and I find myself licking my own.

“Oh, I’d say a couple less than you’ve had, love.” The broad smile that he sends my way reveals the most delicious dimples.

My gaze returns to his arm, and I point at the snake. "You know, piratesh used to use shnake shymbols to mark treasure. Sho is your shnake supposed to point to some hidden treasure or shomething?"

Strangely, a brief look of concern momentarily flashes over biker boy’s chiseled features, but it’s gone in an instant, his smile returning full force. “Nope. If it was aimed at my treasure, it’d be pointed the other direction.”

I furrow my brows before letting my gaze descend from his neck, down his broad chest and rock hard abs to his…

As my eyes slip below his belt line, it takes a minute for my alcohol-addled brain to catch on to the joke.

If my cheeks were burning before, they were a raging inferno now. Tara is practically howling with laughter. I pretty much wish I could disappear into a hole. A very small hole. Far underground. Where no one would ever find me again.

He sticks around, and Tara hands me another shot. The rush of dizziness that follows makes me forget my mortification⁠—thankfully⁠—and I actually begin to chat with biker boy once again. His voice is deep, resonating with warm familiarity, and it begins to feel as if we’ve known each other for longer than just a single evening. I feel myself slipping into comfortable banter.

After a while, I feel Tara bump into me from behind. I stumble into biker boy, my hands landing on his steely stomach. I look up at him, startled. "Wow! You feel like Iron Man or shomething!" My speech is really slurred now. I’m sort of aware of my state but feeling too good to really care.

He raises an eyebrow, a smirk playing across his lips. "Iron Man, huh?"

"Yep," I say, giggling like a schoolgirl. "But inshtead of armor, you jusht have abs of shteel… or iron, I guess…"

He laughs. "Well, I'm flattered. Women are usually talkin’ about a different part of my anatomy when they call me ‘Iron Man’."

This time, I’m too far gone to be embarrassed. I’m feeling something far more along the lines of… hunger. “Well, maybe we should shee if I agree with them…”

***

Waking up the next morning feels like I've been hit by a truck. And not just one of those medium-sized Amazon delivery vans, mind you, but a full-on 18-wheeler. My head throbs in time with my pulse, my mouth as dry as the Sahara. The sunlight filtering through the threadbare motel curtains is a physical assault on my eyes.

Wait! Huh? Motel curtains? Motel?!!!

I shoot out of bed in an instant, which causes the room⁠—and my stomach⁠—to slosh unnervingly. When I look down, I’m horrified to see that I’m naked, my clothes strewn over a nearby chair. I put them on, willing my roiling stomach to hold on long enough for me to at least be clothed before I run to the toilet.

The events of the previous night come rushing back. The biker bar. The shots. The Iron Man joke…

…oh God, the Iron Man joke!

I turn to see biker boy still asleep in the bed⁠—then realize I don’t even know his name! Or if I do, it’s gone in the murky haze that was the end of last night.

Dressed now, I tiptoe toward the bathroom. As I crouch in front of the toilet, feeling the acidic burn of bubbling bile licking at the back of my tongue, I glance back at the biker. His dazzling blue eyes are open, and he’s looking directly at me.

“Morning!” I say with as much cheer as I can muster⁠—which isn’t much. My voice sounds more amphibian than human. But he doesn’t respond. Pupils don’t even twitch. Then, I notice his tongue, lolled at the corner of his mouth. His neck is bruised, dark blue.

I shoot up and run over to him, ignoring my stomach’s urgent protest. I touch his wrist, then his neck. No pulse.

That’s when I puke.

***

When the police arrive, they're asking a million questions. I try to answer as best as I can. "No, I don’t know his name… No, I’m definitely NOT into strangulation in the bedroom… No, I don’t normally vomit on lovers, dead or otherwise… Yes, he has an identifying mark⁠—a snake tattoo…"

One of the officers peers at my expired lover's bare arm. "There's no tattoo here," she says, her voice filled with suspicion.

"What?" I mumble, suddenly confused and more than a little scared. She’s right. "But it was there. I swear it was there." There isn’t much about last night I’m certain of, but I am certain that that man had a tattoo winding its way up his arm.

As I fumble with my words, trying to explain, I notice a strange tingling in my left hand. I hold it up to see a strange, snake-like tattoo coiled around my ring finger. A cold shiver trickles down my spine. Did I get a tattoo last night?

Fuck. My mom is going to kill me!

I know I shouldn’t be concerned about that. Not with a dead man lying right in front of me. But this permanent reminder of the whole horrible event just pushes me over the edge.

"I... I need to go home," I stammer, my world spinning like a teetering top. The stern-faced officer seems to sense my distress and nods, taking down my address. "We'll be in touch, miss. Try to remember anything else that might help."

When I get back home, Tara is waiting, her eyes bright with anticipation. "So, how was your night with Biker McSexyPants? I’ll bet he was⁠ unbelievable in the s—"

The tears that I've been holding in check finally spill over. Tara looks shocked, then quickly moves to comfort me. "Lillian? Lillian? What happened?"

I don't answer. I can’t. Instead, I stagger to the shower. I just need to get clean. As I try to scrub away the morning’s horror, I look down to see something that sends a fresh rush of adrenaline through my thumping heart.

The snake tattoo has grown. Scales now slither their way up to my wrist.

Okay. That’s not normal. Okay, okay, okay. That’s way not normal. Okay. Okay. What the fuck?!

Emerging from the bathroom with the leaden weight of terror firmly buried in the deepest pit of my stomach, I tell Tara that I need to go to the med center.

So we go.

When we arrive, the sterile smell of rubbing alcohol makes my stomach churn. Nurses and doctors bustle around. As I explain my situation, I can't help but feel ridiculous. A tattoo that grows? Seriously? It's the stuff of a zero-budget horror movie.

Yet the reality is there, curling around my wrist like a fucking parasite. The doctors run their tests, their furrowed brows only amplifying my anxiety. Eventually, they tell me that they find nothing unusual about the tattoo. Just ink and skin, they say dispassionately⁠—right before handing me a brochure about the benefits of psychological therapy.

***

As we walk back, Tara peers intensely at my new tattoo, her fingers tracing the scales of the serpent over the back of my hand. "You know, it could be worse, Lil. It actually looks pretty badass..."

"Tara!" I exclaim, my panic flaring. "This is serious! There is a snake. In my skin. And it fucking grew this morning!"

She blinks at me, her usual carefree demeanor replaced by a crease in the middle of her forehead. "Okay, okay. I get it. Just… don’t you maybe think that all the alcohol and the shock⁠—”

“I know what I saw,” I seethe.

"Gotcha,” says Tara, chastened. “So what should we do?”

It’s a good question⁠—a question that actually helps. Putting my mind on a solution is probably the best thing I could do right now.

“I have no idea."

"Research?" she suggests, the word dripping from her mouth as if she had just eaten a sour grape.

I smile. In spite of everything. Because it’s what I should have thought of first. Some librarian I was going to make! "You’re a fucking genius, Tara!"

She flashes me a hesitant smile, probably unable to believe what she’d just signed herself up for.

Together, we dive into researching the inexplicable tattoo, transforming our apartment into a war room of sorts. Texts on tattoos, magic, even witchcraft litter the floor. Tara actually digs into them with a fervor that astonishes me. She’s a really good friend.

Every day, the snake seems to grow, coiling further around my arm toward my neck, making me wonder if I’ll suffer biker boy’s fate too. But every day, we persist. We laugh, we panic, we argue, but through it all, we stick together.

Even though I'm the one with the curse, it feels like we're both in this together. Somehow, that makes the whole thing just a little bit easier to bear.

***

A week later, the serpent’s tongue has reached the base of my neck, just like biker boy’s on the night he died. I know I’m out of time. Exhausted, I lay on my bed, desperate for a solution, when a tome on Tara’s nightstand catches my eye. I flip through the pages. It’s a manual on witchcraft⁠—one that I’m certain haven’t read before. Somehow, in all our research, I must have missed this volume. As I see the title of one of the chapters⁠—The Mark of the Serpent⁠—my stomach twists into a knot.

"The mark creates a conduit for the witch to feed off of the life force of the cursed," I read aloud, my voice shaking. This is it! This has to be it!

Tara emerges from the bathroom. “Find something?”

For the first time in weeks, I don’t have to force a smile. “I.. I think so!”

I turn the page, immediately spotting a counter curse that sends my heart soaring. It requires the cursed and at least one uncursed soul to place candles at certain points around the room, then chant the text aloud, focusing on expelling the conduit of the snake from the cursed soul’s body. Supposedly, the process could be painful, but I’m more than ready to endure a little pain to get rid of this thing!

"Will you help me?" I ask my roommate.

Tara nods, her jaw set with determination. "Let's do it."

We set up in our room, the tome placed right between us. As we begin to read the unfamiliar language, the snake tattoo begins to writhe under the skin of my arm, sending sharp stabs of pain through that half of my body. I grit my teeth and continue, determined not to let the pain deter me.

Tara and I read the text in unison, our voices echoing throughout the small room. The snake ripples and surges upward, beginning to close the last remaining inch to my neck, just where it was on biker boy the night he died. Panic threatens to set in, but I force it down, focusing solely on the chant.

Then, just as we're about to reach the final phrase, Tara stops. I glance at her, confused. As I gape, I feel something constricting about my throat.

"I'm sorry, Lillian," she says, a strange look in her eyes⁠⁠—part excitement, part sadness. "But I really need your energy. That serpent curse is a bitch to conjure, but thankfully, it can be transmitted through intimate contact. In your case, I got two for the price of one, I guess you could say."

"What...?" I gasp out, my world spinning as her words sink into my thudding heart. Tara... a witch? My best friend... sacrificing me? For her magic?

My vision darkens as the snake tightens about my throat. I try to grab it, to sink my fingernails into it, but they only tear my own skin. No matter how deeply I dig, I can’t… quite… get to it.

As I sink into the encroaching darkness, the last thing I see is Tara's sympathetic eyes and beatific smile.