By Jocelyn Kovach

I decorate my largest organ with the beauty of firing neurons.


There’s an electric buzzing. A voice croons from the speaker in the corner of the office building. The room is small, confined. The noise of my breathing is synched with the person hovering over my body. I feel vulnerable. Not just because I’m stripped naked from the waist up, but because of the needle driving pigment into my skin. It’s my sister’s design. It’s one of the only ties we have to each other now that she’s moved out. I’ve never felt so alone, yet I want to get her stamped onto my largest living organ. It’s one of the few tangible representations of the strength of our friendship. My side aches. My arms are long numb from being held over my head. I resist allowing my lungs to inflate and expand my rib cage. My artist’s gentle breath flows down my back and along my chest, tickling like a waterfall.

This is the only way I know to express how much she means to me. The needle puncturing my skin doesn’t hurt nearly as bad as when she ignores me. I hope she likes it. I hope she can see the price I’m paying. I’ve been here for four hours. I take no breaks.

There’s an electric buzzing.

— — —

It seems like almost every conversation we have now starts with, “Do you remember when mom and dad…”

No. I don’t remember. I don't want to remember. The pain that comes from dredged up memories sits in my throat like bile. Allie can only remember what happened to her. I can’t blame her. It wasn’t easy growing up in a house so fixated on success. I don’t remember enough of our childhood and she remembers too much. I have a tendency now to lash out, especially at Allie. She doesn’t know of my years wishing I wasn’t alone. I’m trying to train my body out of a wounded mindset, but I can’t act like a dog. I can’t keep biting.

Allie graduated college last year and now lives where I go to school. It’s nice being close, but when we are too close, we repel each other. She yelled at me for not inviting her around enough, crying because she was so upset. I got angry. She doesn’t even remember calling college apartments disgusting. We’re two parallel lines, or two halves of a magnet. I don’t really care. She cares so incredibly much.

— — —

My childhood memories are buried deep behind iron walls in my brain. I like it better this way. It means I don’t have to remember the dishes thrown halfway across the house, shattering into a million pieces that reflect the emotions of the act back onto us like a disco ball. It means I don’t have to remember the fights between my parents that ended with the smell of burnt rubber and coppery blood filling in the absence of my mother.

I don’t remember a lot of this, but my sister does. Growing up with someone else is never easy. Three years doesn’t seem like much until you factor in the rate of child development, where every week marks a new achievement. When I came into existence, she had 156 more weeks of development, yet already I was expected to start competing.

Allie’s a tattoo artist. She graduated from college, started working for Apple, and hated not having a creative outlet. She built a place for herself. The familial pressure put onto her is no easy feat, but she’s soared above the bar of most expectations easily; she carries the baggage of the sacrifices she made to get there.

“So if you got another tattoo, what would it be?”

Allie knows I like my tattoos to have sentimentality. If she figures out what I want, she’ll draw it and convince me.

“I’m not sure yet.” Allie has a glint in her eye that tells me she won’t let this be until I agree to let her tattoo me. I’m not yet convinced.

She only does stick-and-pokes, and I don’t know how long I can take the perpetual torture of needle driving into flesh. At least with a machine, it’s done fast.

That’s not the only reason I hesitate. How do I tell her that I can’t take her inflicting any more pain on me?

— — —

The restaurant we are in is small. Bamboo panels cover the walls and the table wobbles. We found this place by accident. I was driving around with Allie, my small car jolting with each pothole we hit on the cracked pavement. We argued about where to eat, my music humming softly in the background. We passed hunger and hit anger, and it sat red-hot in our stomachs. I pulled over at the first convenient spot, which happened to be a mom-and-pop sushi place. It must have been fate.

As we sat on lumpy chairs and ate fresh sushi we had watched be sliced from the delicate aquatic bodies, an easy peace hung in the air. We filled the small dining area with mindless chatter, easing the anger from our digestive system and feeding the memory of two little girls raised in a demanding house.

— — —

There’s a very gentle rocking. It’s barely noticeable. You can only notice it if you’re actively trying to feel your surroundings. Allie and I sit next to each other, our elbows bumping on the armchair.

“What do you want?” Allie grunts.

I don’t know. “Flowers. You know, like one for each birth month.” My voice wavers.

I wanted to sound cool but landed just shy of suave and fell into the deep cavern of embarrassment inherent to being a little sibling. Allie scoffs. She’s the artist of the family; odd scraps of paper from her sketchbooks are pinned on walls and attached to the refrigerator. Lines that would come out crooked if I drew them never look bad when coming from her. I’m jealous. I wish I could translate what went on in my brain in such a beautiful way.

“That’s so basic.” She pulls out her iPad. It’s new. Mom and Dad got it for her since she’s going to need it for her undergraduate art classes.

“Like this?” It’s a simple drawing. “Yeah. Can you make the lines thinner?” The look she shoots me says she thinks it was good enough. She doesn’t really care. I care so incredibly much.

— — —

My phone chimes. Allie’s asking when I’m free again. She says she misses me. I ignore the message for now and go back to sitting on the balcony with my roommate. Allie’s been trying to reach out more, talking about how we’re the only people that’ll be there for each other for forever.

I’m bitter. It’s hard not to be. My ribs burn with the memory of begging so desperately for her approval. I’ll never forget her reaction to seeing my tattoo for the first time.

“They fucked you up.” Allie bluntly stated.

If only she knew how I don’t care about her opinion anymore. If only she knew how it’s too little too late.

— — —

If the room were the color of our mood, it would shine a bright golden. Brighter than any dragon’s hoard. The white walls are already decorated with odd paintings and knick-knacks found at thrift stores. Once someone’s treasure, they now add to the treasure of this home. My cheeks hurt from how hard I’m smiling. We sit together on the lumpy patchwork couch she found on the side of the road in College Station. I’ve never gotten along with someone as wholeheartedly as I have with my sister. I can’t remember why we don’t hang out as often. It’s like our brain was built in the same way. We’re almost the same person genetically, so of course we’re going to be a unit against the world’s influence. My sides ache. It’s not the ache of wishing the patch of flesh on my side would melt off, but the muscular feeling of laughing too hard, drawing air in and forcing it out too fast. Her room is small but bursting with character; our parent’s record player sits in one corner, and the mug declaring her the “best sister ever” sits on her wooden bedside table. I miss this.

Then the night ends and we go back to our individual lives. I grab my keys and drive back through Austin traffic to return to the hellscape of West Campus. She forgets about me until it’s convenient for her. I’m not her first choice of company. That’s okay. I’ve paid in pain for the short hours of her time.
I have an appointment scheduled for tomorrow. I’m craving the metal puncturing my skin. Let me decorate my hollow shell with another piece of beautiful pain and escape my head for a little while. ■