I pulled down my knitted pants and everything inside broke off. It was as if I flew into a concrete wall at great speed.

Almost on the coccyx, it was boldly and unevenly stuffed with ink: “Skin”. I myself had so many tattoos that it became clear that ETA was not made by her will. Someone held her as she writhed in pain and fear, and pushed ink under her skin.

Those jagged-edged, ink-smeared, spilled-out tattoos told me more than Amalia herself when she yelled at me that Cloud hated her.

The tattoo was more like a brand that is put on cattle, animals, domestic or not. And this dirty,...