My stripes and I. Just two, not three, I never know so I had to look again to be sure. I’m proud of my stripes. They were my first tattoo and the most difficult to do too.
In order to get them I had to drive my motorcycle on a raining night in a roundabout. Drove so that the rear tire went directly into the worst point of a pretty flat water hole where she finally lost control. Then I targeted my bike so that I could hit the small step of the pedestrians walk. Throw my helmet away and flew through the walk side made of asphalt with millions of small spiky stones with my left hand and all the right side of my face. What a rush!
Back on my feet, I tried to turn the bike on again but she didn’t want to. So I parked her the best I could and walked around 2 kilometres on a really high steeply road.
I didn’t notice anything strange, I was in shock-survival mode. When I arrived at my boyfriend’s house I rang the bell and… everything went black. Amazing how much our strength limits overwork to survive.
Only two days after could I see myself on a mirror. Did I say myself? I never ever have seen before such an awful monster like this one trying to stare at me over one eye. And I swear I didn’t say Bloody Mary three times, not even once! All was swallow, a huge mess of strange bumps, totally unrecognisable. After the swallows got away the right side of my face looked a bit like Freddy Krüger, only much much worse, so I named myself, back then, Pepê Krüger. It was crazy to see the whole skin's rebirth, from transparent holes to baby pink, and miraculously back to normal.
Now, when we talk about it we regret never had taken any photos. But then again, we were more preoccupied on getting my face back, which was easier than any doctor thought. I was young, strong, a real sports girl so it cured so fast and good that all it was left behind was these stripes made by a few stones that were, as it seems, spikier than the others.
It was a really hard job to do, all by myself this tattoo, oh, it even rhymes!
But at the end it turned pretty well: they say scars show that someone truly lives, you know. Oops, I meant tattoos of course.