When I first crossed paths with Peggy, my instincts whispered she’d stir trouble.
Our mutual friend introduced us after Peggy settled next door to my closest confidant. From the start, she tossed me a backhanded compliment—“You’re so bold for skipping makeup”—and I flashed a tight smile. I wondered if I’d judged her too quickly and welcomed her to our game night.
Big mistake. My gut rarely lies.
First up was Sardines in the dark, a playful game, or so I thought. Peggy, in her zeal to win, pushed my head into a bookshelf. She bragged about it to everyone, chuckling, no hint of remorse.
Next came King’s Cup. “Never have I ever… been divorced,” she declared, her eyes locked on me. The room froze, but her smirk gleamed. I took a sip, refusing to feed her the reaction she craved.
Over the following months, her pettiness sharpened, especially around Mark.
Mark and I shared a deep bond, always had. To Peggy, though, he was a trophy. Group outings turned into her stage, and I became her target.
One day, she overheard me discussing the dragon tattoo I’d been planning for over a year. It held meaning—my mum loved dragon figurines, calling me her little dragon. I’d sketched it with her favorite wild roses woven through. When Peggy caught wind of “dragon,” her eyes lit up like a predator’s.
I saw her grin. I knew what was coming.
I live in Brighton now, but this began in Manchester. My mum had passed the previous winter, her voice lingering like a warm ember in my chest.
Dragons were our shared joy since I was small. She’d hunt for ceramic ones in charity shops, placing them on our windowsill like sentinels. In sunlight, they shimmered.
My sketch showed a gentle dragon, eyes soft, whiskers curling, with wild roses climbing its form—her flowers, the ones she’d tuck behind her ear to make mornings feel festive.
When Peggy overheard, panic hit. I was exhausted by her need to turn everything into a contest, especially around Mark.
So I improvised. I told her I adored Spirited Away and wanted Haku coiled from wrist to shoulder, a bold full-arm piece.
Her face glowed like a festival stall. She pressed for details—colors, scales, whisker shapes—and I dangled them like lures.
Two weeks later, she strutted into the pub, denim jacket rolled up to reveal a pale green dragon with vivid yellow eyes and wispy clouds. She radiated smugness.
I sipped my cider, keeping my expression neutral. Inside, a tiny spark of pettiness flickered, and I wasn’t sure what to do with it.
When asked, she called the tattoo “meaningful,” shooting me a glance to see if I’d react.
I hadn’t gotten my tattoo yet. I kept waiting—for the perfect moment, for better finances, for a new job, for after my birthday. Grief plays tricks like that.
Life moved on, and Peggy wormed deeper into our circles. She started hosting game nights, which was bold given her knack for “accidentally” nudging people.
Mark stayed kind to both of us, true to his nature. He’s the type who remembers your tea preference and your pet’s birthday, with a soft spot for chaos.
Peggy thrived on that. She laughed too loudly at his quips and “borrowed” his hoodie for a photo, like a cat leaving a trophy at your door.
Two years later, I moved to Brighton, landing a flat where, if you leaned out far enough, you could glimpse the sea. I began greeting bus drivers with “cheers” and collecting shells on rough days.
Over tea and oat biscuits at Rina’s table, I confessed one rainy afternoon: “I never wanted Haku. I made it up because Peggy was eavesdropping.”
Rina nearly choked, her cup clattering. “Wait, I drove her to get that tattoo because she said needles make her faint.”
My stomach sank. Rina’s eyes narrowed, recalling Peggy’s words: “‘She’s going to be so upset. It’s exactly what she wanted.’ She wanted it to sting you.”
Hearing it aloud lit a spark. It wasn’t petty anymore—it was calculated, a deliberate jab to edge me out.
I fell silent, nibbling my biscuit, watching rain streak the window. Rina squeezed my wrist. “She’s not renting space in your head anymore,” she said. “Book the appointment. Get your mum’s dragon.”
Something shifted. I walked home through the mist, dug out my old sketchbook, and messaged a North Laine tattoo shop I’d been eyeing on Instagram.
The artist, Mags, with silver hair and a gravelly laugh, loved gentle dragons. She told me to bring my sketches and anything tied to the flowers.
I brought a paper rose my mum had folded, stored in a shoebox, photos of her windowsill dragons standing like tiny guardians, and all the fragments of her memory.
Mags laid them out like a mosaic. Her pencil moved, and my shoulders eased as the dragon took form, curling like smoke with roses nestled around it.
When she asked about colors, I surprised myself: soft reds for the roses, hints of blue for the dragon, like a storm’s edge. I wanted it to feel like home.
We scheduled two sessions for the detail and shading. I left the shop buoyant, my cheeks sore from smiling to myself.
That night, Peggy messaged, saying she was visiting Brighton with “the gang” and wanted recommendations. She included a selfie, her dragon peeking from a white shirt’s cuff.
I sent her a list: the donut shop by the pier, the cozy Korean spot, the pub with the tiled fireplace. Kindness cost me nothing.
On Saturday, they arrived in a lively burst. Peggy angled her arm in every photo, dragon prominent, tagging me in three and posting a boomerang of clinking glasses.
In person, she was sharp, steering chats toward old slights with “Remember when you—” as if it were charming. I felt weary, older than my years.
Mark caught me at the bar, his eyes catching the shift in my usual. He asked how I was.
I told him about my dragon. His grin was all teeth, genuine, like I’d shared news of a new home. He said he’d love to see it when it was done.
Peggy’s ears pricked. “Oh, you’re finally doing the Haku? Or did you switch again?” Her tone dripped with false sweetness.
I inhaled. “I never wanted Haku. That was a fib. I’m doing something for my mum.”
Her smile faltered, then reset, her eyes flicking as if rewriting her narrative.
She laughed, too shrill, and said, “So I got this for nothing?” She flashed her sleeve, as if new lighting might rewrite the story.
I didn’t take the bait. “You got it because you wanted it,” I said, offering a lifeline. Her gaze wavered, unsure if it was safe to grab.
The next week, my first session began. The shop’s buzz felt like life itself, and Mags worked in steady loops, making my skin feel like part of the art. The dragon came alive.
Midway, Mags paused. “I see a lot of cartoon dragons lately, pulled from Pinterest with no story.” She smiled, eyes on her work. “Yours has roots.”
I shared the story, keeping it concise, like folding clothes tightly. She nodded, familiar with such storms.
“People mistake attention for depth,” she said, tapping the linework. “Real meaning stays soft and strong.”
Two days later, my arm was tender, a bruise and a treasure. I wrapped it in cling film, applied ointment, and whispered, “Hi, Mum,” like speaking through a carved gate.
Peggy posted a beach photo, her dragon gleaming. Her caption read, “Some create, others follow,” with a wink and a lightning emoji, vague enough to dodge a fight.
Comments rolled in with flames and hearts. I set my phone down and watered my spider plant.
The second session brought color. The roses bloomed, fierce yet soft. The dragon gained blue shadows, like water dreaming of rain, and something in me unwound.
Mags held up a mirror. I cried quietly, my body making space for the feeling. It captured my mum’s laugh in lines.
I sent a photo to Rina and Mark, not posting it yet. I wanted to hold it close first.
Mark called instantly. “It’s beautiful,” he said, his voice like a steady hand on a doorframe. “Come to London next month. I’m hosting a thing.”
I took the train, wearing a loose jumper to protect the tattoo. Mark’s “thing” was a massive fundraiser for a shelter, with him juggling auctions and raffles like it was nothing.
Peggy was there, in a red dress that screamed caution, hair sleeked back. She glanced at my sleeve like it was a message she didn’t want to read.
We nodded politely. “Heard you got it done,” she said, tilting her head like a curious cat.
“I did,” I said, letting silence settle like a shape we could both see.
Midway through, a woman with a clipboard announced Mark’s recognition for organizing the event. He looked surprised, then pleased, giving a brief, warm speech.
Peggy clapped loudly, then grabbed the mic. My stomach tightened, knowing her patterns.
“Speaking of kindness,” she said, “it’s tough when people steal your ideas.” She smiled, tossing her hair. “But I believe in moving forward.”
The room shifted, a collective wince. A man in the back asked, “Steal what?” His tone was practical, seeking clarity.
Peggy gestured to her arm. “This. I had a whole vision, and someone… echoed it.”
Mark covered the mic, his voice low but clear: “Peg, not now.” He rarely shortened names.
The air grew heavy. Bev, from Mark’s office, piped up: “Isn’t that the dragon from that movie? My kid has it on a shirt.”
Laughter rippled, then faded. Peggy’s face reddened.
I hadn’t meant to speak, hating drama and pity equally. But something snapped into place. “Enough,” it said.
I raised my hand. “I lied,” I said, my voice finding the mic, steadier than I expected. “I told Peggy I wanted that design because I was tired of her jabs.”
Murmurs stirred. I pressed on, the truth feeling lighter than the lie. “I shouldn’t have lied. It was petty. But she didn’t copy me by mistake. She told our friend she wanted me to hurt.”
Peggy’s mouth opened, more stunned than guilty, like she’d wandered into a trap she didn’t see.
Then, a twist: the tattoo artist from her shop was there. “I remember you,” he called, stepping forward, his fringe lopsided, tattoos worn like old tales. “You brought Haku’s picture and said, ‘This will get under her skin.’”
The crowd rippled like waves on a shore. Peggy’s shoulders sank.
“Fine,” she said, exhaling. “I did that. I was mad and wanted to win at something dumb.”
Mark took the mic. “We all do dumb things. Tonight’s for the shelter, not old fights.” He smiled neutrally. “Raffle time.”
The room buzzed louder, smoothing over the moment. Peggy slipped to the bar, and I ducked to the bathroom, splashing water on my face, checking I was still me.
In the mirror, my dragon peeked out, roses calm. I touched them, feeling a stillness I hadn’t held since the lie.
Peggy was waiting in the corridor, as angry people often are. “You made me look foolish,” she said, her voice more tired than sharp.
“You made your choices,” I said, softening it. “So did I. I’m sorry I lied.”
She stared at my arm like it held answers. “I thought having what you wanted would make me feel bigger,” she said, wincing. “It didn’t.”
I said nothing, feeling the faint pulse of disco music through the floor.
Then she surprised me. “I hate this tattoo,” she said. “Not the art. The reason. It feels small every time I see it.”
I nodded. Sometimes the consequence is carrying the intent.
She asked, “Know anyone who can cover it?” Her voice was small, like she thought I’d say no.
I thought of Mags, her lines like breath. “Yes,” I said. “I can ask.”
She frowned. “Why help me after everything?”
“Because this ends with me,” I said. “I don’t want to fuel your cycle.”
We swapped numbers again, like we hadn’t before under strained labels. I texted Mags, who offered a slot in six weeks and a note: “She brings tea.”
The next month felt softer. I posted my tattoo with a caption about Mum’s roses, and kind comments warmed my heart. Peggy stayed quiet online.
She sent a photo of her arm, scribbled with washable marker. “Is it weird to be excited and sad?” she wrote. I said it wasn’t.
I went with her to the appointment. I read while Mags worked, and Peggy and I chatted about small things—weather, snacks, easy shows.
Mags wove magic, turning Haku’s curves into morning glory vines with tiny moths, clouds into budding flowers. Peggy stared at it, then cried quietly.
“I don’t deserve this,” she said. Mags replied, “Art isn’t earned. It’s a fresh start.”
We got chips, grease seeping through the paper, and sat on the pebbles, watching a dog chase waves.
Peggy said, “I apologized to Mark. And I told him I thought I liked him because you did, which is awful but true.”
I laughed. “He’s very likeable. Women see him and turn into magpies.”
She chuckled, genuine. “I thought I wanted to outshine you, but I really wanted to be your friend and didn’t know how.”
The wind tugged my hair. A wall inside me settled.
“You were unkind,” I said. “But I wasn’t bold. I should’ve set boundaries instead of games.”
We ate in quiet harmony, gulls squawking their chaos overhead.
A week later, she texted: “You were right about meaning being quiet.” She sent a photo of her arm, moths glowing like stars. I showed Rina, who replied with hearts and a knife for old times.
Mark called from a train platform, off to Bristol for a new job, his voice equal parts thrill and ache. Before he left, we had a pub night. Peggy brought a homemade pie, absurdly perfect, and apologized to everyone, raw and real.
We played cards, keeping her from bending rules. She laughed, stepping back from old habits. Change comes in small shifts you see later.
Walking home by the sea, I thought of Mum. The tattoo felt like her hand on my arm, roses listening.
The lie I told was fear, but I could own it without letting it own me. I didn’t need Peggy’s approval for my dragon to matter. Some art speaks to others; some speaks to those you’ve lost.
At the farmer’s market, I saw Peggy buying tomatoes, her moths catching sunlight. She waved, relaxed. We talked briefly about nothing. She mentioned volunteering at Mark’s old shelter, inspired by the fundraiser to grow beyond her smallness.
That was the truest twist. Karma isn’t a storm; sometimes it’s a seed you choose to nurture.
It’s easy to slide into pettiness when someone else starts it. Lies feel like shortcuts to safety, but safety is knowing your why and standing firm.
My dragon doesn’t shield me from spite; it reminds me I can choose better. Envy echoes an empty space; meaning waits quietly for you to listen.
If you’ve faced a Peggy, set your boundary and claim what’s yours. If you’ve been a Peggy, you can redraw the lines.
Share this if it resonates, and give it a like to reach others. It might be the quiet spark someone needs today.
