Time to go home.

You’re home now, and you’re still shaken up about the incident. You’ve spent the last hour mulling over what happened, and you’re just about to sit down and watch TV to calm yourself, when… huh?

You feel something hard inside of your pocket. Retrieving the object, you realize that in your panic, you’d accidentally taken the jar of ink with you. Would that be considered shoplifting? What the hell should you do with it? You're about to hide it in your room, but you quickly notice something: the paper label, though slightly worn, is now legible. Hastily bringing the bottle to some light, you’re able to make out the faded words:

“Stanley Clark’s world famous ' Ink',” the label proclaims. “Simply write your own name on a person or item of your choice, and ownership is guaranteed!”

…

What the fuck.

Flipping the bottle over, you find a date on the jar - “Manufactured in 1835”. Long before slavery was abolished. You… suppose it makes sense, but the use of the word “” sends a chill down your spine. What does “ownership” mean? How would something like that even work?

Of course, you know in your heart that the ink is likely just a scam, akin to the snake oil schemes that prevailed in the times of old. Although, if the antique shop lady’s reaction was anything to go off of…

Another shiver travels down your back. If this stuff really does work, then her reaction was more than justified. The memory of the old woman lunging at you, crazed eyes bulging, her wrinkled arm desperately swiping at the jar… It almost makes you want to throw the ink away, to dump it into the sink and forget about it forever.

…Almost.

You don’t know why, but something deep inside of you is stopping you from trashing the ink. You might as well test out what the ink actually does, right? Chances are, it’ll do nothing and you’ll come out of the whole situation with some high quality pen ink. What’s the worst that can happen?

Grabbing a fountain pen from your room, you gingerly load it up with the special ink. You notice how fluidly the ink moves as it pours from the jar - if this stuff truly is 200 years old, it must’ve been preserved well. Pen in hand, you look around for something you can write your own name on. Nothing comes to mind, until you walk back downstairs and notice a large pile of mail lying unopened on the kitchen counter. Perfect.

Grabbing a letter off the top of the pile, you quickly jot down your name across the front. Pleased with your handiwork, you place the letter back into the pile as your mother conveniently enters the room.

“Hey, honey! Has the hospital called back yet?” she asks expectantly, pulling you in for a hug.

You’d told your mom almost everything during a very emotional phone call on the walk back home. You’d been hoping to talk to her about the situation a bit more, but first…

“No, not yet. But hey, the mail’s here!”

Picking up the stack of letters, your mom quickly sorts through them. You observe as she allocates the various letters into different piles on the countertop: one for bills, one for junk mail, and one for personals. Preparing yourself, you watch intently as she reaches for the envelope that you’d embroidered with your name only moments before.

She picks it up and her gaze falls upon the inked name set upon the letter. Her eyes flutter for a moment as they gloss over, and she slowly turns to you, extending her arm and handing you the letter.

“This one belongs to you.”

...Huh.

An indescribable feeling washes over you. Something about your mom’s monotone voice announcing those words, her eyes dulled and empty, pushes buttons in the back of your mind that you didn’t know you had. It’s a dark, corrupting feeling, but something about it seems…

Right.

…

Wait, what were you doing?

As the feeling fades, you think back to what your mother just said. “This one belongs to you.”… What a weird choice of words. Does that mean... the ink worked?

Intrigued, you grab the letter from her hand. You study her face for any hint of a reaction, but she’s already gone back to sorting the letters as if nothing’s happened.

You scan the envelope once more to ensure that it wasn’t actually meant for you. Confirming that it wasn’t, you tear the letter open, childishly excited for what secrets the letter might contain. Your smile fades however, as you realize...

It’s an electricity bill. Great. What now? If you own the bill, does that mean you have to pay it?

Thinking quickly, you slide the letter back into the envelope and take out your pen again. With deep strokes, you slowly scribble out your name, covering and smudging the ink until your name is no longer legible. Satisfied, you hand the envelope back to your mom, who confusedly receives it and checks the front again.

“Oh? Nevermind, this is for me!” she giggles sheepishly. “My mistake. I won’t make you start paying the bills… yet.”

You both laugh, but you silently contemplate the situation. The ink… seems to have worked! It might’ve been a fluke, but something about the entranced look set upon your mom’s face as she handed you the letter quashes most of your doubts. Plus, you were certain that your mom would have at least seen your name plastered in black ink across the letter as an act of vandalism or something, but she didn’t seem to notice. It was as if she couldn’t even see it.

You take the pen out of your pocket, the dark ink sloshing calmly around inside, as you find yourself lost in thought. What now? The possibilities are endless, but you’ll need to do a lot more testing. How dangerous could this stuff really be? How long does it last? Does the ink really work on... people?

Something about trying the “ ink” out on a real person feels wrong, but… also kind of exciting. The possibilities may be limitless, but there’s also a huge moral quandary tied to it.