The skin on my hand is still prickling warm from this morning, and my fingers instinctively reach to rub at the mild itch. Without thinking I glance down to see the new addition—its black outline unmistakable—before plunging my hands back into the full sink. My phone buzzes on the counter next to where I’m washing leftover dishes.

Check out Ben’s new Skin!

Dammit. The worst part about the glitch is not being able to shut off any Cicatrix notifications, especially my Top Friends list. I flip my phone face down and scrub harder at the plate in my hand.

As I make my way through the pile of dishes I ignore the steady stream of buzzing from my phone. It’s become common courtesy, an attempt at privacy; stay off the app unless invited. Friends will send pictures if they want you to see—the rest should be avoided.

The prickling on my hand becomes a dull pulse.

—

It started off surprisingly small: another ad you barely noticed until somehow its downloads were in the millions and you were scrambling to catch up. Cicatrix was a new kind of social media—it was tangible, present. The idea was to download an app and make an account, and then Cicatrix would send you your Patch: a tiny dime sized sticker you put on your skin. 24 hours later the device was linked to your body and your account was ready.

Inside that patch were thousands of tiny magnetic receptors—fully FDA/CDER approved—that dissolved into your bloodstream until the app had a map of your skin cells. There were no side effects, no bodily changes—until you customized your profile and Cicatrix got to work. All those magnetic receptors organized according to your settings at a location of your choice—most commonly forearm, shoulder, or calf—and were visible in under a minute.

With only a warm sensation and a touch of a button, you had a new tattoo.

Temporary, but long lasting and based on keywords of your choosing. Cicatrix automatically uploaded a copy of the design to your profile and notified your Friend accounts; Check out Jessie’s new Skin!

We marveled. Colorful and painless tattoos of our favorite things…our deepest passions in one click. In a world of endless social media streams and irrelevant status updates, this was a way to be unique—original. Soon it was hard to find anyone without the app.

Until the glitch. Tattoos started appearing without permission. Suddenly the patch, long dissolved and irremovable, was picking up through hormones your strongest feelings—your secrets—and putting them up for display. You had no control: couldn’t do anything but cover up until it faded.

Most tattoos were harmless, an errant song lyric or date, but many were not.

Teens with pride flag tattoos were being outed accidentally. Political affiliation symbols sparked fights in public. A year ago a group of big name CEO’s were suddenly spotted with red swastikas on their arms.

A matter of personal security and expression, Cicatrix was turned over to Congressional jurisdiction. States assumed the power to determine how tattoos would be considered by businesses and universities. Many workplaces began mandatory Tattoo History inspections at job interviews, wanting to ensure no personal notions violated company policy nor image.

You could no longer hide from the visible world; your personality was in view at all times. Covering up helped, but the app still kept a steady record of your tattoos. It was completely resistant to shutdown attempts and notifications became impossible to mute. Everyone was now alerted of all nearby tattoo updates.

It was like the app wanted your secrets bared; Cicatrix made human passions and candor the center of public judgement.

—

This morning my husband of three years woke up with a new tattoo on his chest.

Scrawling, affectionate letters over his heart; Elizabeth.

“Jess—Look, no, it’s not what you think—“ Ben clumsily started, pulling the bedsheets up to his chin with one hand and grabbing my left hand with the other.

But it was done. I pulled back my hand and cradled it to my chest for a moment before walking out the door. By the time I got home most of his things were gone.

—

Dishes clashing is the only sound as my hands scrub underwater.

My new tattoo—a thick black band on my fourth finger, cracked in the center—is visible through the suds. I look at the sink, the empty kitchen, anywhere but my hand; a plate hits the counter and chips.

My phone buzzes on the counter.