by A. J. Balkin
as the man pulled out a knife and sliced Joe's cheek. In an instant, the man got back on the bike and wheeled back onto the path. He turned to Rosa with eyes hollowed out in a vacant hue, cheeks picked at and bleeding, and said in total deadpan, “Perfection is what I want. Perfection forever.”
And then he was gone.
After that night, it took a year for Rosa to return to her art. She landed an apprenticeship through a friend at High Priestess Tattoo, and felt her creativity being rekindled. It had taken six months for Rosa to visit the river, and after her first night tattooing she decided to go down to the river at night. This time she tucked a six inch bowie knife into her messenger bag and left the pencils at home.
Things never returned to normal for Rosa. She wouldn't felt safe without her knife, even when at the shop. And while the scene from that night haunted her dreams, revenge consumed her waking hours. She exacted her revenge carelessly, finding victims on days when the trauma chose to unburden itself, its memory pulsing in her flesh: the riverbank, the naked man in the river, the moon, the woman cloaked in white, the cackles in the night. Once, a marine who had just returned from Iraq came into her shop for a tattoo.
“I want this phoenix tattooed on my back. I want its talons holding this American flag, rising from the ashes of the WTC buildings. I want it perfect, to last forever.”
“Should be easy enough. Head right back this way.”
Rosa took the marine by the hand and led him to her booth. She lifted up his shirt and guided his chest flat onto the tattooer's chair. six hours later, it was done.
“Tell me what you think,” Rosa said flatly, exhausted. She handed him a mirror.
“What the fuck?”
The marine's back depicted a woman's body cut and mangled, a man's face slashed and without eyes, crowned with a laurel of lilacs. Rosa showed her teeth in a smile and nodded towards a shelf, where a red satin cloth sat. She slipped the satin away and revealed her knife.
“Get the fuck out of here or I'll slit your throat. And don't say a word,” Rosa gritted through her teeth.
“You're crazy,” the marine repeated over and over, as he grabbed his shirt and trailed out the door. “You're fucking crazy.”
Years went by like this. Once every few months a haughty man came into her parlor and walked out with a woman cloaked in white, bruised and cut up, with a man's face without eyes and a slashed cheek, crowned with a laurel of lilacs. Rosa was never twinged with guilt by scarring her victims. And she never feared that she'd get caught. After returning home from giving that tattoo, she'd fall into bed and go straight to sleep, and she'd wake up fresh with the sun. Over time, the memory of that night faded, and so did her desire to seek revenge with her ink. The whole ordeal seemed done with. Rosa finally was able to move on.
That is, until she saw him again.
“Could I bother you for a tattoo?”
The man dinged the bell on the shop counter. Rosa stood behind the counter, flipping through a magazine.
“You're in the right place – have anything in mind?” she responded, her gaze never lifting from the magazine.
“My skin is your canvas. Whatever you have seen, I want forever on my body.”
Rosa dropped the magazine on the table. It was him – undoubtedly, it was him. She looked up to his face and it was confirmed. The night at the riverbank came crashing back into her life.
“How the fuck did you find me?”
“I've been watching you for years, watching you come here day after day, and leave night after night. I can see the pain in your walk. You've forgotten it, I know, but it's hiding in your bones. I want you to scar me with what's inside you.”
Rosa closed her eyes and took a deep breath.
“Come back tonight – at midnight – and you'll get what you want.”
And he did. Rosa arrived an hour early to set up her station. When the clock struck midnight and the man came, everything was ready. She guided the man to the chair, slipped off his shirt, and kissed the scar on his cheek.
“You're safe now, Joe, love. This needle is the voice from that night. It speaks the language of pain, but my hands will guide it gently,” Rosa said, as she kicked her machine on.
The gun hummed for hours, and the two didn't speak until the tattoo was done. Rosa only took breaks to light up cigarettes. She smoked while she worked and let the ash fall onto Joe's skin. His blood mixed the ash and with a swirl of pigments that Rosa had forgotten – reds, purples, white, black, normal colors that were warped by the memory of the night on the riverbank. The mechanical sound of needle hitting his flesh – only his flesh – exorcised the cackles and demons from her bones. With the back of her hand Rosa wiped the viscous and muddy liquids – sweat, blood, ink – that pooled on Joe's back. All that she needed was slouched in that chair as dawn's golden light poured through the shop's back window.
“Tell me what you think,” Rosa said, as she handed Joe a mirror. It reflected the tattoo – a woman with a tattered white shawl, bruised and bloodied. A man's face scarred, crowned with a laurel of lilacs, and whose eyes were green and true.
Acknowledgements
This book is dedicated to Tanizaki and his story of the same name.
Who's AJ Balkin?
Nobody's exactly sure. According to records from the future, he was put in the care of an asylum somewhere in the upper Midwest. After a decade of good behavior, he was allowed to take up janitorial work within the asylum without pay. He is the author of a forthcoming series of novels that explore the future of America. Stay tuned!