Elle by Aalaa AlMajnouni

Posted on October 15, 2012 by

9


Who is Elle? Learn a little bit about her here.

 

“I get called a bitch about five times a day. It comes with the job”. Thus types Elle in a mind-full dialogical encounter with her alter ego, which too carries her name in a backward style, sneeringly as “Elle”. In a self-admission-like, Elle the person speaks up, utters floating tears ahead of chewable words; a poignant axiom that forces her hands to resume fingers-typing process into her recent purchased Smartphone, and considering a long self-determination it lasts months of tattooing, and finally end up by owning: “and I don’t mind being called a bitch, as I mind the action of being called as one”, and still she uncovers droopily a self-actualized surrender, an evidence, and a subsistence.

Elle is that female-being, a girl who ages in haste towards her young-looking twenty-three years old, delightfully skinny in a medium length, her facial features are relating to a femme fatale femininity with a dimpled square-like pale face; capturing razor-sharp blue eyes that make you hypnotized to strive for a dive between its acuity and radiance in cat-eyes-linered fashion, it comes along with a petite oval head; and a hairstyle together with a trimming off sides; leaving an asymmetrical goth-like bangs to cover up what is lifted from her apathetic face. However, that audacious look possibly conceal a faultless outer-shell before others, for Elle is the indispensable personality to her workplace, the nonchalant character, the persona who never been caught crying for any reason, a mere shell on her surface nonetheless a toxic flame; and empathic unconceivable burden, irritation, scrappy affection from the within. This is Elle. And not for so long!

At one night of the Nirvana’s Tattooing-Salon downtown the allay, stands Elle before her bench, a setting of an edgy quadrangle craft-table, where colors’ stains are all dispersed over; keeping a portion of art no one ever skipped a momentarily throb to become aware of its artistic outcome effects, but Elle! She and that aesthetic vision of her alone perceives this bench, as a horizontal observing woody-paint created from extremely careless random acts by tattooists including herself during their work-steps. This table for another time looks, a deformed piece of wood knacks out to picture-fy a chaotic fender-bender colorful shadows in order to blemish here and about as petal withdrawing flowers, as monochrome morning dews, and multicolored flowing tears, and sometimes nothing there, this might be a plain figment of her imagination!

Tattooing pens as the rest of tools couldn’t escape the chaos either, and cannot be located through these colossal collections from other prints!  Here and there over and below, everywhere are all waiting a turn out to be bodily inscriptional designs over either manly muscled arms, or around a lady sexy spot, or a love match signature between momentarily love-devotees, or simply tattoo fanatic. Many tattoos, different shapes, various concepts, complicated spine-chilling figures, and more!

But negligence is inescapable, a truth about Elle states out clear while holding her favorite of them all. A Fallen Angle in a mermaid body tail swims high sky whilst its angelic wings drags it downfall the stream in a durable absurd! But, she desires this tattoo on the right-side back of her slimy back; however no one of her co-tattooists are capable of mastering its drawing-skill level as Elle, herself does. The only arty in the Nirvana! This is maybe a sinister gene of artistry penetrates her angrily flouting vines, maybe an artistic accidental luck in this age of a lifetime, and once upon a lifetime. Nobody does know! What Elle knew for sure that, while reorganizing her personal workspace, and tools: classifying, ordering, and putting each to its common place, she was hymning a song to herself, and her alter ego chorals back medley, and none could perceive a sound but them. Alone. Elle and the other Elle. It was tender, her voice, and distressing, and on the middle of this melodic air “BITCH!” finds its way loud and clear to crash those harshly priced ears, distracts with a plunge into her underlain, a shout out loud from her butch-look owner’s lips of Nirvana’s calling down to follow with today’s first to show costumer, and to become Elle’s first call of a work.

“YO! BITCH!” says her first tattoo-shopper. A man in his late thirties seems hammered and dangerous to crash with a juvenile chitchat. Yelling again “BIT..CH” whilst giving off a spit to the ground: “me like that tattoo poster of that fat ass wingy roaring lion over here” and uncovers his bushy chest with a rigid paddle on it! She keeps verbally wordless; her mouth is zipped as it holding a brush inside.  The other ego Elle takes over the lead of thoughts, and speaks out: “Huh-uh.. alike, all alike, another junk of many seeks manhood through personifying one of the most aggressive feline. A lion! And a flying lion! How silly. Manhood gets to flee hard as these types of men, damn why they keep streaming like bugs into Nirvana”. She, the body chokes with another distractible thought, as she recalls her ex-boyfriend and his incomplete tattoo. He, the measureless love, the obsession, the lunacy left her kaput, and broken, and left his tattoo uncompleted … “STUPID BITCH!” wakes Elle back to conscious, and shuts off Elle the ego. She apologizes for him what she assumed absent minding. Stresses over the pistol needle with roundly shaped lips, smile a smirk and nothing but smirking and continues the tattooing work.

Interesting of her, and that distinctive way of managing a rotten self-feed on his unhealthy remembrance! Engrosses her into experiencing a period of a short past, that was never appealing, nor happy, as it would be described later when being simply a long distant past; she looks oblivious, cracks into the darkest edge of her inside, escapes behind the emergency exit flap, clenches a cheap cigar barely from her tight leather pants pocket she wears and lights it up, as she stand motionless. Exhales a smolder, another smolder. And three more smokes and fall down sobbing her lungs out. Laughs her mind off, harder, and crazier and holding on another cigar, and lighting its automatically, with that artist-brush movement of her, draws irritably with its fire-tip “B..I..T..C..H” letter, by letter, along her write. Stays still longer more, and grasps her Smartphone again, opens this incomplete memo note, and dates it today, “And I end up being a Bitch of my own, October, 11th 2012”.

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