“Tonight,” I whispered, letting the word linger on the edge of my tongue as I savored it. I shivered. The feeling of triumph ran down my spine and electrified my core, causing my breath to hitch as I imagined how the night would go.

“Tonight,” I whispered again, enjoying each syllable. Three years of waiting, hunting, plotting, and practicing would all be worth it in a few short hours. Standing, I shook off the lethargy of my slumber, airing out my body in the room. School impressed upon me the importance of resting before working, not that I needed a reminder for tonight. Nothing would stop me tonight.

I stepped in front of the mirror, letting my gaze travel down my pallid skin in clinical fashion. I was too tall. To skinny. To pretty. The entire package rendered most women jealous, but for me it was too noticeable. That had been my downfall in the past, the reason Rach deigned to meet me at the University and one of the reasons for my inability to escape attention long enough to track him down.

That would all change tonight, I promised myself. Tonight I would wield my skin like a weapon, using it to destroy everything he’d built. Shrugging out of my nightwear, I turned in the mirror to study my nude back and the invisible lines running up and down my spine. The markings faded, but the memories did not.

“Skin never forgets,” the professor intoned as though imparting to us the deepest secrets of creation.

Rach, his younger self so beautiful with those vivid green eyes and cobalt dark hair, was the first to ask the question on everyone’s mind, “What do you mean?”

The professor smiled back at him. My younger self sighed and smiled at him too, much to my frustration. “Well Rach, your question necessitates a ‘step back’ as it were. Who can tell me the difference between a Writer and a Scribe?”

My hand shot into the air, desperate to impress Rach. Without waiting for the professor to call on me I said, “Scribes creations are temporary copies. Writers words last forever.”

“That is the simple answer, no doubt what is taught to the peasantry,” replied the professor in a condescending voice.

In my memory, I watched my younger self’s face. It took me years to develop the skill of concealing my emotions, so my consternation and embarrassment were plain as ink. Rach, in the corner, flashed me a pitying smile. That only made it worse, especially as the rest of the class gave me the same look.

The professor’s voice broke through my mounting humiliation as he continued, “Scribes creations are not permanent. But the true difference is in ability. Writers twin the power of the word with the power of creation seamlessly. Scribes can only mimic this ability, not understanding the true foundation of language.”

Determined to salvage some measure of my dignity, I spoke out of turn again. “So it’s a measure of knowledge then?”

Chuckling, the professor shook his head as I ground my teeth. “No, no, the difference is more ephemeral than that. After all, the difference between a Writer and a Scribe is one of accomplishment. When you graduate, you will be a Scribe. But for those of you who do possess the requisite ability and passion,” I noticed he was not looking at me when he said this, “becoming a Writer is simply a matter of creating something worthy of the title.”

Rach raised his hand, his question once again obvious even before he asked it, “So how does this relate to skin?” he asked.

“I’m getting there Rach, be patient,” admonished the professor before turning to the board and pointing at his notes from earlier in the lesson. “Alright then,” he said, “remember how we talked about the two components of Writing? First is the utensil, what you use to Write. Second is the medium, what you Write upon.”

Then he turned back to face the class and pointed to a diminutive girl in hiding in the back. “Syarah, your family is famous for the quills it makes. Can you explain the differences in Writing utensils?”

Syarah, looking like she’d rather do anything else, nodded and said in a voice so low I had to strain to hear, “Different writing implements are better for different writers. Ink color, thickness, and shade all impact the Writing.”

Frowning at her short speech, the professor gave an unenthusiastic nod before clarifying. “Exactly. Various inks naturally last longer or write easier. Because each Writer has a different signature and handwriting style, it is important that the implement matches the Writer.”

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

Then he turned back to face me and said, “Of course, right now you all have standard issue pens with common black ink. Some of you will never earn anything better. But even the lowest Writer has a custom quill, pen, or brush.”

I saw my younger form wilting under his gaze, shifting uncomfortably in my seat. I wanted to reach out and reassure her, she would be a Writer! But I couldn’t. So instead I let my memory play out, feeling the simmering anger build and relishing the savage emotion building in my stomach. Holding my chin high, I surveyed myself in the mirror.

Beauty meant little to me compared to my dream of Writing. All it brought was jealousy and unwanted attention. So I had to control my strokes carefully as I wrote my dress into existence. It was everything I wasn’t. The azure flaring low-skirts and tight bodice emphasized the curve of my body all while granting only the barest hint of my legs. That hint was a half-inch past daring. Enough to scandalize the conservative ladies and entice the cads. It was perfect for tonight.

I did my hair up, swirling my red curls into a pile that left small ringlets falling down. They were just messy enough for a man to push them back into place without appearing forward, or at least appearing excessively forward. Of course, in doing so he would place his hand dangerously close to my freckled cheeks. If I wanted, I could lean in and let his fingers brush just so against my skin. But I wouldn’t. I couldn’t risk anyone feeling how dead it was. Memory assaulted me again as I thought of my skin and the lesson.

The professor’s voice rang in my ears as he said, “The medium is the same. Writing on vellum, paper, or even stone all has a different effect on the product. Of course, these are all legal mediums. But skin is not, because skin is unlike all other mediums.”

“How?” Rach asked.

Now, I recognized the hunger in his voice and the promise of what was to come. But then, as a young and frankly stupid girl, I simply though about how serious and deep he seemed. How dedicated he was to his study. I calmed myself, smoothing the dress down flush against my legs. It would do no good to get angry with my past self. Besides, nobody in the classroom caught on to Rach’s obsession.

The oblivious professor answered his question without a hint of hesitation. I wanted to shake him and call him a fool, but instead I simply watched as he said, “Skin never forgets. Words written on skin sink into the person and alter them, possibly forever. Skin writing persists even after death, haunting the soul and scarring the body for eternity. This is why Tattoo Writing is banned on pain of death unless done at the behest of the royal family and why all known examples of Skin Writing are held under guard in the royal vault.”

Rach raised his hand again, oblivious to the undercurrent of trepanation and disquiet running through the class. “I don’t understand,” he asked without waiting for the professor to call on him, “Writing on stone lasts forever as well. Why is Skin Writing different?”

“Because Skin Writing brooks no mistakes,” replied the professor, “in other mediums you can correct a misplaced character or improve on the original story. Indeed, this is the work of the Editors. But Skin never forgets. No matter how you rewrite the story or try to adjust a mistake, skin will never forget the original.”

“That seems incredibly useful,” Rach said, eyes shining with an unholy gleam only I could spot.

The professor nodded, somewhat uncomfortably, I noticed. Apparently, he hadn’t been quite as oblivious as I thought. “Yes and no,” he vacillated, “Skin Writing allows for perfect preservation yes. Many of our oldest Epics come from the Skin Writing in the royal vault. But this preservation comes at a cost, one that is simply unnecessary in today’s world. The only use for Skin Writing nowadays is abuse. Even Self-Writing is simply unnecessary when we consider the robust nature of the University’s Writing College. Access to Writers, Scribes, Editors, Poets, and practitioners of even the more esoteric disciplines such as the Calligraphers or Paint Writing is so widespread today that it makes no sense to engage in practices like Skin Writing.”

Evidently satisfied with the answer, Rach flashed a brilliant smile that caused my younger self’s heart to flutter and changed the subject with a deft question. “You don’t mention the Authors in that list, professor. Is that because no students today possess the ambition and flair required to ascend Writing and become an Author?”

I kept studying him until the memory faded. His demeanor changed, but it was a lie. If my younger self had paid more attention to the last question, I might have understood what was coming. But instead, I helped Rach find his way into my room one night to let him show me his custom quill. I didn’t stop to think about protecting myself until he had me. I woke up the next morning with lines written in blood running down my body.

I turned back to the mirror, dropping my bodice another sliver of an inch. I didn’t trust myself to meet most of the partygoers’ eyes without clawing them out. It would be better if they were distracted. Satisfied with the daring number, I slipped my metal tipped pen back into the dresser for later. Then I let the dress unwind into Words.

I’d reWrite it tonight, before I left. I did not intend to allow the necessity of the dress to make my life any harder than it had to. I refused to allow Rach even this little victory. Then my hand trailed down my body until it came to my right hip. Carefully, I traced my fingers over the scarred words I’d written into my own skin to cover up his violation. They were scabbing over again.

I’d written them as an inexperienced fool barely capable of calling herself a Scribe-in-training. Idly I wondered how many other women had similar lines etched subtly into their flesh, somewhere invisible to the world. I braced myself for what I had to do. The ink needed to be fresh for the illusion to remain undetectable.

“Tonight,” I promised myself as I reopened the cuts. “I am going to carve my Story into you Rach. Tonight.”