By Calla Smith
The emptiness always hit Irene the hardest at 3 a.m. when she stumbled around her apartment, unable to sleep alone. She couldn’t remember how long she had been searching for something, anything, that would fill the places in her that no one had ever been able to reach. There has always been something missing, something that kept her up at night and waited around every corner in the day while she tried to go about her life.
Irene was trying to avoid it one day by taking a long walk somewhere she had never been and she stumbled by the tattoo studio by chance. There was no doubt in her unquiet mind as she stepped across the threshold and heard the metallic shriek of the needles for the first time. She started on her arm, losing herself in the pain that covered all her other hurts just as the black ink covered her flesh, glistening like the blood of a new life. Maybe she could start over again after all. Maybe this could finally wash her clean.
She didn’t mind the feeling of her skin stretching around the black square that was now staring back at her whenever she looked down. The eyes hidden beneath the void recognized Irene as no one ever had before, taking in every crack and flaw in the surface of Irene’s soul without comment, greeting her as though they had known her all her life.
She had to go back. She needed more. This time, the area that was covered looked bigger, but she kept her gaze straight ahead and felt that she could only really breathe with the sharp tip of the needle biting into her waiting skin.
The second time, the relief was more fleeting than it had been the last time. Soon one arm was covered, and then the other. Each patch of colored skin was a new pair of eyes looking at her from the darkness without ever finding her wanting. Late nights and early mornings were easier now. She felt she could have talked to the being hiding in her flesh for hours if any explanations were needed. But all the blinking eyelashes already knew there was nothing more to say or do.
And then, even if Irene couldn’t see her back, it was comforting to know it was there, like a protective arm around her shoulders. The stain had crept over her stomach and down her legs until it reached her ankles. She wore long pants and button-down shirts even in the sweltering heat once she noticed the way people on the subway gazed over her body as though they had any right to judge.
The one thing that she could never escape was the pale skin of her face in the mirror, the last terrible emptiness that could never be filled. It was the same face that had haunted her for all her life. Nothing could ever hurt her as much as the evil hiding in her pupils. It told her that no matter how much she tried to cover it up, she could never hide everything that was wrong with her. Irene knew that her face, the last bit of skin to be touched, would soon also be blacked out, as though that could make up for her existence. Maybe, she thought she could also find black contacts. Everything might finally be alright if she couldn’t recognize herself anymore.
`* * *
Calla Smith lives and writes in Buenos Aires, Argentina. She enjoys continuing to discover all the forgotten corners of the city she has come to call home. She has published a collection of flash fiction “What Doesn’t Kill You”, and her work can also be found in several literary journals.