There’s a scar on her collarbone from when she fled her world, from when they removed those two stitches but lost the third, somewhere in the middle. You’ll spot it above her heart. It aches, and it bleeds, but she writes it off as a tantrum.
Anything intangible is a tantrum.
On that day a month ago, the sun warmed her wrath as she wound through the crowds. She was late for her appointment, no one to blame but herself. When she arrived, they ushered her behind a blue curtain that folded her fear within its fascination. When pretty nurses pried her patchwork skin apart, unfolding her scar, she bore it. Their tweezers pierced like teeth, drawing blood from a wound not-yet healed. The lesion gaped up at the nurses, mouth wide as crimson droplets dragged its lips down.
“We think that there’s a third stitch in there somewhere, but we can’t find it. We’re going to have the doctor take a look.”
The frail doctor’s gloved fingers pried at the lesion, sending goosebumps up her neck as he poked at its edges. The rubber resisted against her skin, reminding her of apples, of the Pink Ladies that sat apprehensively atop her counter and squealed as her teeth sank through their rinds.
“It was a cherry haemangioma?” His face was twice as worn as her previous three doctors, yet his fingers half as kind.
“Yes.”
He nodded, muttering something about the damage. Something that sounded like “a waste”.
Such a large scar for such a small problem.
She meets her plain brown eyes in her bedroom mirror as the morning sun meanders through fine strands of her chestnut hair. Today, 26 days since the unfolding, the scar stretches in a smile as it beholds its pink reflection.
She looks away from it, applying sunscreen to tint her skin white as she tries to convince herself that it’s not that bad. Although Gong says it’s ugly, puckering for attention in the least feminine way possible.
Gong was fossilised in his own archaic contemplations. She often finds herself fossilising with him.
She shakes it off, picking up her blush palette. The coral-pink powder flakes beneath her finger, ascending like dandruff as the fan in the corner groans. The pigment is almost out, tired from her trip to Europe. There were likely still remnants of it in the backpack, gossiping in the creases.
There’s a scar on her collarbone from when she fled her world, from when she traded white brick walls for climbing ivy and iron balustrades. She turned her head away from her elders, drowning out their rumbling disapproval. She jetted across the sea, chipping the exhaustion from her bones and leaving the fragments somewhere amidst the waves. When the straps of her backpack burrowed homes into her shoulders, she ignored the pressure that tried to ground her. She did not turn back. She hoisted her pack higher and turned her gaze to the streets of Paris, Zurich, Verona, Prague; she closed her eyes as she took home from Heathrow’s tarmac. Her shoulders ached as she rode the route home, retrieving her sea-sore pieces.
They settled into her skin, rumbling.
A crescendo of Vietnamese opera from the living room drags her away from the shore of her memory. She hears Gong whistling to the tune; it lilts, reminding her of rough mango leaves that once bowed to his green thumb.
She tunes it out, the opera and the wilting, as she frowns at her laughing eyebags. They grin, baring their bruised teeth as she gags and beats them with concealer. The scar begins to whine, pulsing for attention. She feels her frustration simmering, stoking the pain higher until she’s forced to relax.
Relax because the scar isn’t so ugly.
Relax because the scar will surely fade.
Relax because the scar is better than the blister and you can’t remove the effect after you’ve already cut it from its cause.
If you could, you would sever the imperfections from your skin until there was no skin left. Then, you might be perfect. Then they may finally be satisfied.
“It’s called a haemangioma. It’s likely due to trauma.”
The frown of her third doctor as he examined the blood blister was deeper than those of her last two. This time, she was determined to remove the ugly thing. She was sick of the pain and tired of the looks. Even family, especially family, couldn’t conceal their disgust at the haemangioma. It only dug deeper into her flesh for comfort.
“Your skin was wounded and your body tried to protect itself.”
“I went backpacking for a few weeks. The bag was very heavy.”
She wished she’d never said that so that she may have saved herself from hearing the next line for the one-hundredth time:
The third doctor shook his head, “You overestimated yourself.”
Her phone pings, the screen vibrating, illuminating a photo of the Swiss Alps. From there, she could see all the lower-lying mountains. From there, she gazed up at all the towering peaks she could never reach. The cold air clung to her breath, curling in her lungs and shivering as it settled. Gong frequently cautioned her, “Always higher mountains to climb. From one, you see the next.” But from the peak of that mountain, all she saw was the path she had braved to arrive there.
She feels it now, that achievement that gave way to stillness, that peace that peeled softly.
She swipes past the mountains and reads the notification. Her responsibilities call her from the next peak, urging her to hurry. She’s late. The air is thinner the higher she climbs, feeding her only enough oxygen to sigh.
“Sigh, sigh, sigh,” Gong meanders past her door but doesn’t bother stopping. “Sigh all your luck away. Nǐ bù gāoxìng ma?”
Tell them you’re happy. Ignore the next peak in exhaustion.
Tell them you’re healthy. Set the concealer with powder.
Tell them pleasantries and devour their compliments. Let it sustain you.
She carves her cheekbones with contour, each second ticking by. She holds in her next sigh. They’re waiting for her.
She remembered the first morning in Paris, when there was no one and nothing waiting. When the anticipation of the new floated her out the door. As her smile stretched her skin and her sweat warmed her brow, each meticulous layer of makeup was washed from her face. The crowded streets felt wide, accommodating for the bicycles with baskets of baguettes. The scent of pastry was sweet, transported by curious wind that tossed her skirt and urged her steps. There was an excitement that tempted recklessness. It dared her to relinquish responsibility, asked her to gamble for a different future. She stared out at the Parisian streets, drinking up the sun that kissed her bare skin, and forgot to fret for the pieces of her pretence that she’d left in the sea.
“Tian.”
She turns to the door as her name breaks the illusion, smiling as Jia enters her room. Her little sister looks around the space, shaking her head at the unmade bed.
“Weren’t you supposed to leave like ten minutes ago?”
Tian shrugs.
“It’s fine. Maybe they’ll finally realise they’re hopeless without you.”
Tian laughs; it’s short lived and quickly wilts in her neglect. Jia is an epiphyte. Her leaves rustle in the air and her body curls around the family tree. The branches to which she clings belong to Tian. She shelters her sister from archaic instructions beneath a protective canopy while her roots grasp at solemn soil. It drains her.
Jia frowns, “Just stay home today. I haven’t seen you in ages.”
Tian nods, but they both know she’ll leave. Jia swears as she stumbles on a loose shoe but rights herself before Tian can turn. For Jia, there is no stumble that lasts longer than a moment. Of all her sister’s skills, this was the one Tian envied most.
Tian rises, “I’ll be home soon.” The words do nothing to soothe the sisters.
Gathering her things, Tian walks past Jia towards the exit. She passes the mirror but doesn’t look back as her responsibilities call her, pinging and pinging and pinging from the peaks.
Time taps her to race, but she shrugs him off. Tian inhales crisp air through her teeth, praying for a final finish line as she walks out into the day.
There’s a scar on her collarbone from when she discovered the world, from when they removed those two stitches and finally found the third, hiding in her pain. The scar has learnt to evade attention, awaiting the day when blue skies replace white walls for good, when mountains ae left to be admired, and when everything comes
Undone.
