“What do you want?” She yells, stopping me in my tracks.
What do I want?
“You look good, Liv.” She’s beautiful. She always was, but this far exceeds the girl she used to be. She’s grown up, and everything about her is enhanced.
Her shoulders are tall with confidence she didn’t have as a kid. Her curves are accentuated by trim arms and legs, and where her jacket buttons at the waist, cinching her hourglass figure.
Her face has matured and slimmed, where it used to be round with adolescence, highlighting her full lips and angular cheekbones. Her bright hazel eyes are the same, but sharp andpissed off.
“Fuck you, Jensen.” She turns on her heel and starts to walkaway. Grief washes over me…
“Liv, wait!” I beg.
I don’t know why, but she stops, standing with her back to me. Her shoulders rise and fall with her flustered breaths.
“Let me-” I start, but she cuts me off by whipping back around to face me. If looks could kill…
“No! You don’t get my attention or my time now. You had your chance a decade ago.” Her sharp, manicured nail juts out, inches from my face. “I don’t know how you knew I was here, but stop leaving me fucking gifts.”
“What?”
“I don’t care if it’s a peace offering. I’m not interested.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I only found out you were here five minutes ago.”
The fierceness of her face falters almost indiscernibly, but I watch as the warm skin of her cheeks pales.
She stumbles back a step, avoiding my eyes.
“Is something going on?”
The shake of her head is barely there as she scrambles back to her car.
“Liv!” I grab for her door as she slams it shut, but she locks it as I yank on the handle. “Is somebody bothering you, Olive?” I plead, but she ignores me.
The engine roars to life as she hits the gas and nearly runs over the toes of my boots, leaving me in a cloud of dust as she speeds away.
* * *
Four years ago…
“Is this your girlfriend?” The tattoo artist asks as the needle stabs my skin.
“No,” I respond bluntly.
“Sister?”
“No.”
He glances up at me briefly, blinking away when he connects with my deadpan glare. I hate questions. I don’t like explaining myself to strangers; that’s why I do most of my tattoos myself. This spot was too tricky, and I couldn’t risk messing it up.
He continues working in silence until the ink’s done, snapping his latex gloves off and pointing to the mirror on the wall. “Let me know what you think.”
The man in the reflection is someone I’ve spent years trying to understand. Each tattoo up and down my arms and across my chest represents what I’ve been through, and who I am.
At some point, it felt like putting a permanent reminder on my skin would help ease the torture in my head.
Right above my diaphragm in the hollow pit between my ribs is my greatest punishment.
