Pain.

For me, that word is a double-edged sword. I seek it. I chase it just to make it stop. And that method was working just fine until one year ago today. Or so I thought. That’s when I saw her. That was when I saw the source of my agony staring back at me from the screen of my cell phone. Her beautiful face shattered every brick I thought I had carefully crafted around myself all these years.

All humans know pain; some more than others. I’m sure there are people that know greater pain and loss than I do. Kylie, one of my best friends, is one of them. Where my other half was stolen from me and living a completely different life from what I saw in pictures—one without me in it—Kylie wakes up every day without the hope of ever seeing hers again.

Her agony is much bigger than mine.

She doesn’t have hope left. Even the little sliver of it I do possess is enough to get me through the hardest of days. She doesn’t have that.

Ten months ago, a guy I grew up with, my best friend practically my whole life, was killed. Kylie and I witnessed the senseless accident unfold right in front of us. We were in her car, and she was driving behind Trent. He was on his motorcycle. The three of us were headed home on New Year’s Eve night when a man, driving drunk, swerved into our lane—into Trent. He was thrown from the bike being killed on impact.

That scene isn’t something I like to think about. It hits too close to home from another wreck that occurred a decade before the one that ended Trent’s life.

For most people, high school graduation night is a celebration and looked back on with fun memories. For me, it was the worse night of my life. Maybe even the end of my life if I’m honest with myself. The way I’m living now isn’t exactly living. I’m merely going through the motions, looking for distractions from the pain that has been clawing at my chest for so long—too long.

Pain.

That’s why I’m sitting where I am now. Because of pain. Because I need a different kind of pain to mask the other one. Only it isn’t working like it used to.

“Are you purposely jabbing me with the needle, Shawn?”

I’m sitting in my brother’s tattoo parlor, Wicked Ink, in Oxford, Mississippi. He’s hovering over my leg, inking the vacant real.

My younger brother isn’t usually this rough when he’s working on me or anyone else. He’s a very skilled tattoo artist, but something is bothering him. I see it plain as day. I saw it when I walked in. But Shawn’s not exactly the most open person, so I kept my mouth shut. And it’s not like I want to talk about the things rolling around in my head either. I need the hurt. I crave the sting of the tattoo gun heating my flesh as my brother creates another piece of art that bares a soul; a dark reminder of what I’ve lost.

I’d imagine this would hurt an ordinary person. Fuck, I hope I’m not becoming numb to the physical pain of getting a tattoo. If I have then what the hell am I going to do now to ease the burning sensation in my chest?

No, I’m just thinking too hard. I’m not giving myself over to the needle.

“What?” He stops, retracts the tattoo gun away from my body, then glances up, looking me in the eyes. There is a brief moment of confusion on his face before his brown eyes slide down, viewing the red, inflamed area on my thigh that now displays a black pocket watch with the time of 1:53 stopped on it.

That was the exact time—one fifty-three in the morning—when my heart stopped beating, and the world crashed down on top of me. I remember because it was the exact time I was staring at, from across the living room at my parents’ house, when my mother wrapped her warm arms around me and told me my girlfriend was dead. I wanted to die too. It felt like I was dying. Too bad I didn’t, because then I wouldn’t need this pain. I wouldn’t have to live with so much despair and anger burning inside of me if I’d died that night.

That happened a little over ten years ago, and it turned out to be a lie. Not on my mother’s part; she unknowingly told me something that wasn’t true. Whitney wasn’t dead. She was very much alive.

“Stop being a pussy.” Shawn gestures with his hand that’s holding the tattooing machine. “Isn’t me torturing you the reason you come here?” His question comes out more as a sarcastic sulk than an actual question. “I don’t know why I even agreed to do another one.” He places the gun down on the tray next to where I’m reclined on his table.

“Because I asked you to.” This is on me. I should’ve never divulged the reason behind every inked surface on my body, but a couple of months back, Shawn and I got drunk, which is a rarity, even on my days off, but we got to talking. He confessed everything that had gone down at the beginning of summer with Taralynn, his girlfriend, and the stupid reason why he almost lost the best thing that’s ever happened to him. I, in turn, told him too much about my past. “And if you refuse, I’ll go to Vegas and get Chance to do them.”

It’s an empty threat, but the “eat shit and die” look he gives me tells me he doesn’t know that, and it worked. It’s not that I’m against getting tattooed by my buddy, Chance. He’s an equally talented tattoo artist as my kid brother. I can’t explain why I only want my brother to do mine. Maybe the answer is as simple as he’s my brother. He’s someone who won’t question the whys or the meanings of each tattoo; he just does as I ask. Any conversation during the ink session is monotonous, although I would miss this time together if he were to refuse me. It’s the only way we really know how to connect.

When Shawn was in high school, he started apprenticing at a local tattoo parlor in our hometown of Tupelo, Mississippi. During my first year in medical school I was home visiting and that’s when he finally talked me into letting him ink my skin. That night, tattooing became my outlet, my release when the pain and pressure inside became too heavy.

Shawn has only been tattooing for a few years; although, sometimes it feels much longer. He dropped out of college his first semester to become a full-time tattoo artist here at Wicked Ink. Now he’s the owner.

“Why don’t you tell me what’s bothering you? Because it’s not me, or my morbid need for your torture.” He gives me a look that tells me he doesn’t find my humor very funny.

“I’m fine.” His words come out as a bite. His voice intimidates most people—even grown men. To me, he’s still and will always be my kid brother; who if he needs it, I will drop on his ass when he gets out of hand. He’s lucky I didn’t find out about the mess he put Taralynn through until long after it had been said and done. He was the one that told me everything. Had I not been so drunk, I probably would have whooped his ass one good time. The punk would have deserved it too—still deserves it, if you ask me.

“You’re not fine, Shawn. You’re stressed, and you look as old as I feel.” At twenty-eight years old, I feel as if I should be in my late thirties. My little brother is six years younger than me at twenty-two. He has dark circles under his eyes as if he isn’t getting enough sleep, or maybe he’s back to drinking more—possibly both. I don’t know . . . “Are you planning on speaking, today?”

The tattoo is complete. He just has to clean it, then wrap it, and I’ll be on my way.

As if thinking the same thing, Shawn glances down at my leg before he pulls in a deep breath of air through his nose.

“I haven’t gotten laid in five months, asshole.”

He and Taralynn still aren’t in the clear, although they aren’t broken up either. I don’t know what they are really—I’m not sure anyone, including the both of them, knows. Neither one talked about what happened nor did they speak of the future. It’s like they’re in limbo. Neither wanting to make any move in fear of making the wrong one. “I’m wound a little tight, okay?”

“Try being dry for over a year, and then come talk to me, dickhead.” His facial expression changes to one of shock. He clearly wasn’t expecting that to fall from my mouth.

“I know why I’m not getting any pussy. What’s your excuse?”

“Do you think you could not use the word ‘pussy’ when referring to someone I think of as a sister?” Jesus Christ. I look up to the ceiling, then back to him. I should have never opened my mouth. He’s waiting for an explanation. One I don’t plan on sharing. I’m going to have to steer this conversation back on him, or he won’t stop pushing until he gets something out of me. “So, what? She still isn’t allowing you into her bed yet?”

“I’m in her bed almost every night. And if I’m not, she’s in mine. We just haven’t moved past cuddling.” He says the last word like it’s the most disgusting word in the English language.

“Has she cut you off completely? What’s the deal? I thought you both were making progress, wanting your relationship to work.” When I first found out about my little brother and Trent’s little sister hooking up, I was pissed. Granted, Trent had always been adamant about there being something—or could be something—between them if Shawn would just wake up and pay attention long enough to see it.

I have to admit though, I didn’t see it either. My brother has never been the love ’em and leave ’em guy, just the screw ’em and be done with ’em kind. Love had never been in the equation for him, and I didn’t want Taralynn to be one of those chicks. I see now, she isn’t and would never be. He is in love with her—something I never expected to see. He surprised the hell out me.

“No.” He shakes his head. “She didn’t cut me off.”

“Then what?” This may be a worse topic to roll with. It’s not like I want to know he and Taralynn have sex. “Are you even trying to have sex with her?”

“Not exactly.” He twists his upper body around, grabbing a spray bottle from the tray then turns back, spraying water over the ink on my leg.

“Spit it out, Shawn. What do mean? Do you not want to have sex with your girlfriend anymore?” I breathe hard. “Is that the problem? Because if you’re planning on breaking up with her again, I’m going to beat your ass this time.” He tears a clean paper towel sheet off the roll to wipe the soap, water, and excessive ink off my skin.

“I’d like to see you try.” He laughs while tossing the dirty paper towel into the trash bin.

“I don’t think you do.” Shawn and I are matched in height. We’re both six-feet-two-inches tall, but where he is bulkier from weight lifting, I’m leaner from running and the Jiu-Jitsu training I used to do. I have no idea if I can take my brother down or not. Outside of a wrestling match—which I haven’t done in years—I have never been in a street fight, whereas Shawn has—often. But I’d bet money on myself that I can hold my own. “Do not break her heart . . . again. Do you understand me?”

“I’m not planning on it.” Anger flairs briefly in his dark eyes. He has always been quick-tempered. “Look, have you seen Tara? Because if you have, then you know how smoking hot she is. Of course, I want to fuck her. She’s a goddamn animal in the bed and out of it.”

“Dude!” I say louder than I should. “There are some things I do not want to know. That is one of them.” Christ.

“Well, don’t bring my sex life up then.” He turns again. This time he grabs a half-drunk bottle of water, twists the cap off, then takes a long swig. “You’re not getting out of this conversation. Spill your shit. I know you aren’t getting laid for the lack of bitches trying. Who was that one last month? The blonde. She was definitely trying hard to get into your pants.”

“She isn’t a bitch.” I grab the nearly empty bottle of water from his hand, downing the rest.

“I didn’t say she is a bitch. I was just referring to her as a woman.” He looks at me like I’m the stupid one. He’s unbelievable at times.

“Then say, woman or chick or whatever. You don’t have to call every woman a bitch, man. Jesus.” I don’t know how Taralynn deals with his mouth. “Her name is Roxanne. She’s one of the interns that I’m supervising through the end of December, and she is just a friend and neighbor. I have no interest in a relationship with her.”

“She does. Or at least has an interest in your dick.” He laughs, but I don’t find this subject funny at all. Before I’m able to tell him to leave it alone, Taralynn’s voice catches both of our attention causing us to turn our heads in her direction.

“Goddammit, Kenny, this is a workplace, not a fucking playground.” From the look of it, Kenny and another guy—I don’t know—were just tossing a foam football back and forth inside the open space here in the shop. Kenny must have bumped into Taralynn when she was walking through. She shoves at his back, forcing him to stumble forward. He and the other guy look at her with stunned expressions plastered across their faces. “Take that shit outside. No, better yet, take that shit home if you want to play like five-year-olds instead of working.”

I glance at my brother with an eyebrow raised. He equally looks shocked and perhaps even a little scared of his girlfriend’s actions.

“Great, now your colorful mouth has rubbed off on an angel.” I shake my head. Taralynn is not one to cuss. She’s also never one to fly off the handle and go off on anyone either. “Precious,” I call out the pet name I started calling her when she was about five.

She looks over at us. First, at Shawn, then when her eyes land on mine, she forces a smile. This isn’t good. Taralynn isn’t happy. Not even a little bit.

After a beat she heads over, stopping next to me.

She’s dressed in light colored blue jeans and a black sleeveless tank top that is cut low in the front. Taralynn is well-endowed, so it’s impossible—even for me—not to notice all the cleavage she has on show today. Her blonde waves are longer than usual, so the length helps to cover them up somewhat. She is a beautiful woman, and I love her deeply, but in a far opposite way than my brother does. She and Trent came into my life a long time ago. He used to drag her everywhere we went, so somewhere along the way, I started feeling like a protective brother toward her.

She’ll always be a precious, sweet girl to me, and it bugs me that Trent isn’t here to watch her blossom into the strong woman I see her becoming.

“Hey,” she whispers as her features soften.

“You okay?”

“Just fine.” Another forced smile emerges from her lips. She looks over at Shawn. “Can we talk in the office?”

“Uh . . . yeah,” he says, sounding a bit unsure of himself, which is unlike him. Without looking at me, he tells me, “Be back in a minute.” Then he stands following behind his girlfriend.

“What’s up with those two?” I ask Kenny, one of the other tattooist, when they’re out of earshot. He bends down, picking up the soft football from the floor.

“Man, who fucking knows?” He shakes his head as I sit up, reaching for the wrapping material on Shawn’s tray. I’ve watched him do it plenty of times, so it’s no problem to wrap myself. “They tip-toe around everything with each other. With everyone else, they act like they’re pissed off at the world.”

He walks to his station, tossing the ball on the counter as I wrap my leg. When I’m finished, I stand and pull up my jeans.

A loud bang comes from the back of the shop where the office is located at. Seconds later music flows out into the studio from the speakers on the walls. I chuckle, shaking my head. Something tells me their dry spell is officially over. But I don’t stick around to find out. Time for me to head home. And back to an empty apartment.

The pressure in the center of my chest didn’t so much as lift a little bit while I was sitting in Shawn’s chair. I don’t know how much more of this I can take. I like to think I’m a strong person, both physically and mentally, but this, these feeling inside me, will start to seep out, will start to affect my job if I don’t find another method soon to take the edge off.