Body Art I
 

Harm: "Back up, Mac! You have a tattoo? Why haven't I seen it?
Now where would somebody find this...tattoo? 
(Harm looks at Mac up & down ) 
Mac:  "That's classified."
 

Major Sarah "Mac" MacKenzie walked through her apartment
shedding her uniform along her way to the bathroom.  Her brain
skipped from thought to thought as reminders of the day skirted
through her.  She reached into the shower and turned the knob to
start the water.  Closing the door back, she caught a glimpse of her
profile in the mirror above the sink.  She allowed her gaze to travel
down the long, clean lines of her body.

Curves flared invitingly in all the right places and she felt a swell of
feminine pride at her findings.  She turned and faced the mirror.  As
her eyes traced lightly over the white cotton lingerie she wore, they
were snagged by the dark etching that peeked out from under her
bra.  Unfastening the front clasp, she dropped the cloth to the floor. 

And there it was:  the blatant token that she proudly wore.  It was a
memento of the past when her days were less than promising.  A
visual reminder that to find her future, she had to forget her past.

Her tattoo; a single white rose just on the verge of opening, its stem
curving under her left breast, the flower itself ending just to the left
of her breast bone.  It was small enough to remain hidden by a bra
or bathing suit top, but distinct enough to remember.

She smiled suddenly as an errant thought popped into her head. 
'What would Harmon Rabb think?'  He already knew of its
existence, but she doubted he could even guess what it was or the
reasoning behind it.  He probably attributed it to some boot camp
bonding, but in truth, it was already in place before she had
contemplated joining the Marines. 

Steam rose from the now hot shower clouding the mirror as
memories began to equally cloud her mind.  Mac shed the rest of
her lingerie and stepped in, allowing the warm pin pricks to wash
away the present. 

Sarah was fifteen years old again and her whole world had just
ended.  Her mother had disappeared the night before taking Sarah's
beloved mutt, Ruggles, with her.  Although her father held her
tightly as the sobs shook her slender body, Sarah couldn't feel
anything.  That night was the first of many she would spend in a
drunken stupor in an effort to dull the ache of loneliness. 

And then Chris had entered her life.  To a young girl from a broken
home, he had been larger than life.  He would look at her when she
spoke and would hold her in his arms sheltering her against the
world.  But that had been in the beginning.  Soon after they were
married, his true self emerged, the side he had kept hidden from
her.  He stole cars and stayed out late partying.  At first, Sarah had
joined him in his extracurricular activities thinking them oh-so-adult
and exciting.  She wasn't drinking to escape anymore.  She was in
charge of her destiny; she was a party-girl and loved every minute
of it. 

Until Eddie died and Chris got arrested. 

One wrong turn and her world lit by neon signs and headlights
came crashing down around her.  Chris had been busted the night
before for stealing a car. Eddie, dear boy that he was, had taken her
out after Chris' hearing in an effort to dull the ache of his
imprisonment.  They had had, like always, a few too many beers
and were sufficiently drunk to convince themselves they were sober
enough to drive home. 

Eddie had died while she had sat, shell shocked and too drunk to
move. Sarah now recognized that she too, would have joined her
husband in jail had her Uncle Matt not stepped in.  He took her up
to Red Rock to dry her out and talk some sense back into her.  At
first, Sarah hadn't budged.  She fought his gentle voice and caring
hand long and hard, but in the end, she relented, realizing fully the
extent to which her life had gone to hell. 

After two weeks, on the mesa, Uncle Matt had prompted her to do
something that would always remind her that the future was ahead,
and her past only made her stronger.  Betting that Uncle Matt
would have gone ballistic, she never told him of the talisman she
had chosen. 

Mac smiled fondly as the memory of the tattoo shop filtered
through her head.  It was a dingy place on the south side of Yuma,
Arizona.  Not a place where one would go to find her dreams, but
she had chosen it anyway.  Sarah had peered carefully at the figures
on the wall, sifting through the skulls and swords until she had
found it.  The single white rose. 

Chuckling at the artist's reaction to the place where the chosen
tattoo would go, Mac reached for the shampoo and began to weave
her fingers through the short dark strands.  To say that the man had
been surprised was an understatement.  He even insisted that the
door remain open and that his sister be present for the procedure. 

The first prick of the gun had sent a surge of hope through her. 
She was finally truly in charge of her own destiny.  She had sobered
up and blocked the past 18 years of her life out of her memory. 
The next step she chose would be for herself and no one else.  She
would learn to stand on her own, fervently denying the need for any
men in her life.  The only exception being Uncle Matt.  If she fell in
love again, it would be for the right reasons. 

After about a half hour, the procedure was done.  The artist's sister
offered Sarah a mirror and an encouraging smile.  The first look at
the intricate detail took Sarah's breath away.  It was beautiful.  The
dark green of the stem blended perfectly with the olive coloring of
her skin. The white of the almost-opened rose blazed proudly.  A
wide smile slowly encompassed Sarah's face as she took in the
whole effect.

"Perfect," she had murmured. 

It wasn't but a week later that she had enlisted with the Marines. 

The warm water flowed over her soapy scalp, washing the remnants
of the shampoo down the drain.  Sarah smiled as the memory of
Dalton's reaction to the tattoo sneaked up on her.  A small chuckle
escaped her lips at the thought of the surprise that had flooded his
puppy dog eyes.  Obviously, he had never expected anything like it
when she had mentioned it in previous conversations.  John had
taken it in stride, recognizing its significance almost immediately. 
But Dalton, no.  He had stared at it and had studiously avoided
touching it like it held some sort of disease locked within the dye.

 'What would Harm think?' the thought flitted through her head
once more. Instead of merely being a passing fancy, this time it
solidified and lingered.  It was a moot point; she would find out
soon enough.