“Relax,” she said with a smile. “I won't hurt you.” I trusted her. It was an alien feeling to me, and one I hadn’t felt since I met Freddy. “Ready?” I nodded, laid my head back and squeezed my eyes shut. “You know,” Faith said as the first prick touched my skin and I flinched, my body tensing. “There are many meanings behind the significance of the swallow.” I hummed, signalling for her to go further, lost in the sensation of her hand on my stomach and the needle pricking my skin. She was right – you can't count the number of times the needle pierces. It didn’t hurt; I’d felt enough pain to know what it really felt like, but this wasn’t pain. It was uncomfortable pleasure. It was pleasurable discomfort. “Traditionally it’s chosen by sailors. It symbolises the miles of ocean they’ve travelled.” Her voice was soft and comforting, allowing me to drift away from constant defence, like a sailor who had stopped rowing to feel the ebb and flow of the sea beneath him. “And some say it means ‘these fists fly’. Fighting talk, from boxers back in the day.” I slipped into the lull created by Faith and her soft touch, the way she made branding my skin forever feel as natural as breathing. “They’re usually inked in a pair on the chest, and the sailors believed that if they were lost at sea, the swallows would carry their souls to find peace.” That was exactly how I felt on the leather bed, exposed and open without saying a word. I felt like I’d taken a slice of peace to calm my lost soul.