Free Broken People by Scott Hildreth

admiringly. After removing a pair of purple rubber gloves from a drawer in the table, the artist carefully places his hands inside. With his gloved hands, he removes a razor from a glass container on the top of the table.
    Quietly, the artist takes the man ’s right hand, extends his right arm, rubs a soapy substance on the skin, and begins to shave the hair from the skin. The artist traces the outline of the sketch with a pen, and presses the paper to the man’s skin. The man closes his eyes, and leans back in the reclined chair. The man hears a buzzing sound. He gets lost in the music and the buzzing. He feels as if he is being hypnotized. “Ready, Hoot?” the artist asks.
    The man, without opening his ey es or speaking, nods his head.
    As the needle begins to dig into the man ’s arm, he starts to feel a feeling that he has never felt. The destruction of his flesh begins. With each stroke of the needle, the man feels as if something is being added, not to his skin, but to “who” he is. The man, lying in the chair, is not asleep nor is he awake. He feels as if he is elsewhere. As the tattooing process continues, the man feels as if he begins to float. He feels as if he is rising above his past, his mistakes, and his former self. He feels lighter. He begins to feel freedom. Freedom of incarceration, accusations, unanswered questions, and of his entire past. The man gets lost in the feeling, lost in the buzzing, and lost in what is being added to his soul. He feels as if this is exactly what he had hoped for. A new beginning. The man loses concept of time, and of being.
    “Hoot , we’re done. You want to take a look?” the artist asks sharply, tapping the man on the shoulder.
    The man opens his eyes, rotates his head to the right, and looks at the newly applied tattoo. Unable to hide his satisfaction, the man smiles and simply responds, “Perfect.”
    The artist slowly takes the man ’s right hand, extends his arm, and cleans the area. The artist admires his work. Retrieving gauze and medical tape from a drawer in the table, the artist applies a bandage to the tattoo. As he tapes the gauze, he offers the man instructions, “You’ll want to keep that on there for about an hour, and then you can remove it. After that, keep it uncovered. There’s an instruction sheet at the counter on your way out.”
    “W hat do I owe you?” the man asks.
    “Aren’t you that guy that got sent to the joint on that bullshi t gun charge?” the artist asks.
    “Ye s sir,” the man responds. “I bought a machinegun from the ATF. It was an entrapment case. The judge sentenced me to probation, but I decided to fight it to the U.S. Supreme Court. As a matter of ‘law’, I was not guilty. The Supreme Court didn’t hear the case, and I was re-sentenced to go to prison. It was my choice to fight, my choice to risk prison time.  I did my time. What do I owe you?”
    “D on’t worry about it, brother,” the artist says, removing his gloves and throwing them in the trash.
    The man offers a nod, and turns and walks from the parlor. Walking through the front door, he turns and reads t he sign again. “Creation from destruction.” As he walks home, he feels as if his vision is better than before. His hearing. His sense of being. The man looks at his watch. 10:10 pm.
    Sitting at home, the man, looking at his watch, sees that the hour has passed. He carefully removes the bandage, and goes to the bathroom. He discards the bandage in the trash, and as the instructions indicate, cleans the tattoo with soapy water. He applies lotion to the tattoo, and turns his right arm to meet his eye. Prideful, the man reads his newly applied tattoo:
     
    STAY HUMAN.
     
    When the alarm went off the next day, I awoke from the dream, stretched, and sat up in bed. Realizing that it was a school day, I reluctantly got up to get ready for the day. Walking into the closet, I remembered the disappointment with my parents from the night before. The failed