The Fishmonger lived a happy, contented life with his wife. He worked hard, passing years saw the wooden handle of his trusty steel blade conform to the shape of his palm while gutting and scaling, the knife edge never dulled.
Returning home each night he was greeted by his wife and her smile. For she was known for that smile, some in the village said she beamed as if the crescent moon.
She died in labour, taking the child with her. The Fishmonger was inconsolable. Sitting alone, days turned to weeks turned to months, staring out into the grey swell, his right hand choking tight round the wooden handle.
“I would rather drown in this North Sea,” he shouted into the spray, “than continue to drown within this sorrow.”
And with his knife he carved an upturned half-circle, deep into his left arm. It bled profusely, healed badly and scarred magnificently.
Those in the village that knew her said it was a fitting tribute to his wife and her wonderful smile.
They came knocking, “I too am sad, carve in me a tombstone,” they pleaded.
So he did.
Engraving sorrows in their flesh with his knife, the anguished Fishmonger, Tattoo.
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