His skin began to itch, faintly pin-pricking among the dark hairs along his arm. Duncan Goodwin took a deep breath and watched, entrapped by the mirror's reflection.

The faded net curtains hanging across the small bathroom window twitched erratically, flapping waves of lavender scent around the tiny room.

Duncan's knees trembled, his leg knocked lightly against the side of the cast iron bathtub, which ran along the left wall. So much time had passed since he'd been plagued by that nervous energy, which had always preceeded a bout of violence from his father. Yet, here it was again, the heavy energy preempted by the movement of his tattoo. He scarcely believed his eyes as the unimaginable became reality. He gulped back the collection of saliva in his mouth and gasped as the sensation of irritation grew stronger across his tattoo.

The three black inked claws on each of the four feet were beginning to stretch out. Reaching through the surface of his skin and sending him reeling into a panic, shaking his head and whining in disbelief.

It was the same. The exact emotion and fear he'd had that day when he'd finally stood up to protect his mother.

She'd been late getting home from work at the supermarket, and his father was in a foul mood. At nineteen years old, Duncan had lived through his fair share of tragedy. His father's violent outbreaks were always on the brink of explosion, and Duncan's instincts had created an alarm system to forewarn him of the coming danger. Clara had been aware of this situation, having come from a troubled, family life herself. She'd sympathised with him but he'd never suspected that she felt pity. Pity was the last thing that could have helped him. A year after her death and there he was once more - stuck between fear for his mother, for fear of his father - that same terrible sensation.

The dragon's claws ceased their motion, relieving the sharpness of the irritation - but stinging as they lay buried into his flesh. Duncan's heart banged against his chest, and he could feel its beat thumping along his neck.

Daylight had given way to a pale shade of grey. The only patch of light from the window surrounded the round mirror, forming a circle of soft illumination on the patch of his arm with the tattoo.

He couldn't move. He was frozen, just as he had been immobilised so many times during his childhood.

Sitting, and listening at the bottom of the stairs, little Duncan hugged his knees and rocked himself in quick jerky movements. His father's angry words and his mother's plaintiff replies reached him from upstairs.

"Is that all you've got to say to me, woman? Can't you even try to come up with some kind of excuse? What the hell were you doing in Paul's house?"

"No, no. I wasn't there to see him. He wasn't even home. I was there to see--"

"Don't lie to me. You know how I get if you lie! Why would you want me to do that? Come over here. I said come over HERE!"

The young boy heard his mother's shuffling footsteps and the pleading in her quiet, terrified manner and then the moment of silence. That one second of still anticipation, the standby of intense electrical charge waiting for the release... And then...

The tail of the dragon tattoo whipped upwards from out of Duncan's skin, becoming physically real, a thick, scaly limb with razor sharp spikes. Caught in that moment of pre-strike, the young man watched the tail flick erratically, protruding an inch above his arm. He could hardly breathe. It's alive! The god damn dragon tattoo, solid and real. What the fuck is going on? He gathered his senses together, knowing just what was coming next, gritting his teeth and clenching his fists.

The tail smacked down hard onto his skin, the spikes stabbing through his flesh, scalpel sharp, the shock of the blow caused him to cry out. But the pain was not as he'd expected.

It never was. Every time he got in the way of his father's tyranny, the final strike was never as bad as he had imagined it was going to be. Somehow the actuality of the violence was far less of an impact when it finally happened. After ten years of living with this occasional horror, nineteen-year-old Duncan had finally had enough. He could hear his parents in the kitchen. It was late at night and his father's shouts were beginning to become quieter. That was bad. His mother was barely audible, her strength to fight was gone. His father had destroyed her will, made her a slave to his oppression.

Why did they have to go through this again? What gave him the right to torment her, when she never did anything wrong? What kind of coward was this man? To pick on a woman, to pick on his mother? Had Clara had to put up with this too? She'd never really gone into details about her family situation but reading between the lines he guessed that her frequently absent father had dealt out his own form of abuse. Rage grew again in Duncan's body. Why should anyone have to put up with this?

The shallow cuts in Duncan's arm began to seep with blood. It pooled in bulging orbs of red around the embedded spikes before bursting and spreading like thick jam around the tattoo. His clenched fists were causing the blood to pump harder and he knew he should come out of this state of anger but he couldn't let it go... Not until this was over.

Gripping tightly to his baseball bat, teenaged Duncan slipped silently down the stairs and into the kitchen. His father stood with his back to him, his hands on his hips and legs spread in an aggressive stance. The meer sight of him forced Duncan's anger higher. Bile rose in his throat. His eyes stung with hot tears. His mother cowered directly in front of him, her hands covering her mouth, her eyes blank and tearless, frozen in that moment of fear before the hit. Her stare left her husband's. She saw Duncan, bat raised high, coming up behind his father. A new kind of terror reflected in her eyes. Duncan prepared to strike.

A rippling sensation spread throughout the tattoo. The scales pricked up, standing on end and rising out of the dark blue ink. The deep red of his blood was turning the dragon's body an obscene shade of purple. The lozenge shaped head of the beast turned from side to side, as if the creature were rousing itself from sleep.

Duncan stared, transfixed by emotion, pain and disbelief. His mind reliving the horror of the past as well as the present.

The black eyes of the dragon grew in depth, plunging like wells of thick oil, deep into his skin. He could feel the liquid burrowing through his skin... muscle... bone...

Duncan's father followed his wife's eye movement. He span round on the spot to come face to face with his son's rage. At the sight of the raised weapon Duncan saw him hesitate and step back on one foot, his balance then compromised. He spat out words of hate towards his petrified wife:
"Did you put him up to this, woman? Is this your idea of a joke?"

Duncan stepped forward, his grip never easing on the bat. He looked full into the cool blue, red rimmed eyes of his father and weighed up which part of his head or body would make the best target.

"What do you think your doing, boy? Put the bat down before you really get hurt. You don't want that now. Do as you're told and give me the bat."

The tall, lean man held out his hand towards his son, curling his fingers in a gesture of take. Duncan recalled that his black finger-nails were sharp. Sharp like the claws of a dragon.

The black eyes of the ink creature blinked up at Duncan, he could make out his own reflection in the depth. Yet another reflection within the mirror's reflection of the tattoo. It seemed to be swallowing his image down into the black wells. He felt himself sway unsteadily and grasped the side of the sink with his right hand tightly. He could hear a buzzing in his ears.

The face of the dragon began to change. It shifted from the mythical creature's shape into a rounder, human head. The face of a man, long profiled with high cheek bones and grey, receding hair. His father. He was laughing.

"If you're thinking of doing something with that bat, then you'd better make sure I don't get back up again, boy."

The grey haired man took one step towards Duncan. In the background his mother began to cry, sinking to the floor on her knees. Duncan adjusted his grip once more, recalling his training from the baseball lessons he'd had the last summer. Open the space between your hands, losen up and reapply....

"Give me the bat."

His father stepped closer again.

"Give me the FUCKING bat, boy!"

... Reapply... Place your feet this width apart... Relax... Bring the bat back....

"This is your last warning, son."

His father grimaced at him, his yellow teeth gnashed together and his blood shot eyes glared in hate.

"I'm gonna rip you to pieces, boy."

Duncan's world moved in slow motion. He could feel his every breath, feel his hot blood surging through his chest. One more step. He pulled the bat back further. His father stepped forwards one more time. Calling on all the power possible from his coiled up muscles, Duncan swung the bat.

The blue inked face of his father snarled up at Duncan through the mirror. Its teeth snapped at him, growing sharper and longer with every bite until they became part of the original dragon's fangs once again.

There was a sick, dull thud and a huge rebound of pressure throughout his wrists and arms as the bat connected with the man's skull. His father was on the floor.

His mother crawled over to the inert body on the grey patterned linoleum. His arms were splayed out wide and his twisted torso had left his head face down on the flooring. The concave impact area at the side of his skull was a pale pink zone, gradually deepening in colour against the light grey of his hairline.

Duncan breathed out. Long and hard. He let the bat fall to the floor with a clang and knelt down beside his mother. He was shaking. He put his arm around her protectively, wanting to feel her near. She pushed his arm away and lent down to check for her husband's breath against her cheek.

"He's still breathing!" She whispered.

Duncan observed her expression, trying to make sense of her reaction.

"You have to call an ambulance Duncan."

He placed a hand on her shoulder, she was so small, such a slightly built, fragile woman. She looked up at him with her deep, dark, almond shaped eyes, glaring at him from her pale Asian face. She didn't give him any sign of emotion.

"You shouldn't have done it."

Black eyes closing, the face of his father regressed serenely back into the shape of the dragon. The deepness of the gaze disappeared and the head settled back down to rest flat upon his skin as before. He sighed heavily and relaxed his grip on the side of the sink.

The reflection in the mirror became blurred for a moment, a smoky haze passing across its surface. Once the image cleared Duncan saw the spikes of the tail gently retract and pull themselves free from under his skin. A slithering, grating noise accompanied the action as the scales of the body returned to their original position.

The mirror twitched on its metal side screws and daylight flooded through the bathroom window. The net curtains created a pattern of squares and stars across his arm, resting peacefully over the smooth picture of the Chinese dragon tattooed upon his arm.

Duncan closed his eyes, and regulated his heartbeat. Just as it had years ago, the blood in his veins slowed until a calm settled over him. He pulled the mirror upwards so he could see his face. He looked older. He looked like his mother but he had his father's eyes. Would he end up the same? As if woken from a dream, he snapped his head down to look at the tattoo - this time with his own eyes - not through the reflection in the mirror. The tail was still. The blood was gone. The eyes of faded black ink were lifeless and dull.

Duncan ran the tap and splashed cold water over his face and neck. He turned off the tap and pushed the mirror on its hinges until it faced the ceiling. Reflecting the speckles of mould as before.

Once he'd left the bathroom Duncan didn't remember a thing. He gathered his possessions, got dressed and locked up the back door to leave. As he passed through the front door, pulling it behind him, he caught a glimpse of movement at the top of the stairs. He swung the door fully open quickly in an attempt to catch whatever it was.

Must have been his imagination. He shut the door and turned the key. The grating sound reminded him of something. There was something not quite right with him this morning. Even as he drove away, it seemed like the house was still with him.