The Man with the Diamond Strip Tatoo

The streetlights in the suburbs had a way of making everything look filtered, but they couldn't soften the ink on Elias.

A vertical strip of three black diamonds ran from the base of his ear down into the collar of his shirt—a sharp,

obsidian scar that seemed to vibrate against his skin.

I watched him from my porch as he methodically checked the lug nuts on his sister’s minivan. He was an odd gear in

a clockwork neighborhood. He wore plain navy hoodies and nondescript sneakers, the uniform of a man who

desperately wanted to be "Background Character #4." Yet, that tattoo shouted. It was a visual "keep away" sign that

made the neighbors cross the street.

"You're staring again, Ben," Elias said without looking up. His voice was like low-grade sandpaper—rough

but strangely grounding.

"Just wondering why you don't just wear a turtleneck if you want to blend in so bad," I joked, though my chest

tightened. There was an unpredictable energy to him, like a high-voltage wire humming in a puddle.

Elias stood up, wiping grease onto a rag. He looked at the house behind him, where his niece’s birthday streamers

were still fluttering in the doorway.

He lived for that house. He paid the mortgage, fixed the leaks, and stood watch at 3:00 AM when the motion lights

tripped. He was the shadow that allowed them to live in the sun.

"I want to be part of the wallpaper," he said, touching the uppermost point of the tattoo.

"I want to be the guy who gets his coffee and fades away. But the strip... the strip reminds me I’m not them."

"Then why get it?"

He leaned against the van. "Because if you blend in too well, you forget your post. I separate myself so I can see

what’s coming. A diamond is the hardest thing in nature, Ben. It doesn't break. It only cuts."

A car roared down the block, tires screeching—a teenager losing control of a Saturday night. Without a word,

Elias moved.

He didn't run like a normal person; he drifted, a blur of navy blue. He grabbed his nephew by the waist just as the

car clipped the curb, swinging the boy behind the heavy steel frame of the minivan.

The car sped off, the roar fading into the distance. Elias didn't yell. He didn't shake. He just adjusted the boy’s

collar, his hand steady as a mountain.

"Go inside, Leo," he murmured.

He turned back to me, the diamond strip catching the yellow glow of the porch light. In that moment, the fear I felt

wasn't for him—it was a realization of what he was. He was a human border wall. He was "odd" because he lived on

the edge of the world so we didn't have to.

"See?" he said, picking up his wrench. "I'm a great neighbor. I'm just not a very good civilian."