I want to be a thing of horror. I don’t want to be pretty or nice and I don’t want to blend in.
I want Daily Mail readers to tut as I pass by; I want old ladies to shrink back from me in the street. I don’t want to avoid alleyways or deserted parks – I want to be the thing in the dark that everyone else is afraid of.
It’s hard to pull off though when you’re barely 5ft and blonde.
I started with my hair, my clothes – then the piercings. In no time at all, I couldn’t so much as draw breath at school or at home without a what-do-you-look-like or eyes being raised to heaven.
Eventually though that died away as they all gradually got used to it. That’s when I decided to get the tattoo. It’s healed up nicely – I think it looks fantastic, even though I can only see it in a mirror.
My stepfather went mad when he saw it, said I’d mutilated myself and that it was a monstrosity – did I even understand what the eagle meant? Of course I do, I told him. Anyway, I didn’t have this tattoo ‘done’, it was inside me all along and bled through my skin until everyone else could see it, this symbol of the torment inside me.
It does sting quite a bit though.