Everyone’s drawn a stick figure at some point.
I used to love them. Always felt they captured my entire artistic ability.
That probably makes me sound like I can’t draw which I can’t.
When I turned 18, I got my first tattoo:
a stick man flippin’ the bird with a backwards hat and shades.
I called him Little Bro.
Anytime someone cut me off, me and Little Bro would let them have two birds for the price of one.
After that, I got a set of construction workers tattooed on my elbow,
right over my old surgery scar.
Used to show them off at the bar.
One night, Larry rolled into the house unannounced with Johnny wanted to surprise me for my birthday.
They showed up with a bottle of something low cost and a tattoo gun Larry found at an estate sale, cheap.
We drew ourselves like idiots, right over my heart.
No second chances.
Just Sharpie lines and muscle memory.
Me. Larry. Johnny.
I stood tall in the middle,
crown tilted on my stick head,
leaning into Johnny’s with one elbow like I was claiming the whole crew for myself.
I held a crooked little wand dripping with stars.
They teased me, said it looked like I was casting glitter over the rest of them.
I enjoyed that.
Felt fitting.
Felt funny.
Johnny’s stickman stood tall beside me, arms up in cartoon panic like I’d caught him off guard.
Larry’s guy was stumbling beer can flung mid-air, stick-legs kicking out as if caught mid-trip.
The moment just before you hit the floor and realize no one’s catching you.
We looked every inch the cast of a bad sitcom.
That was the last good time I had.
Maybe the last I ever will.
The next day at work, I was peeling back the plastic wrap and tape from the fresh ink yeah, real professional and showing off the newest addition.
I got the usual nods of approval, a few laughs,
but something looked different about Johnny’s stickman.
It was frowning.
It looked damn well scared.
I blinked.
“I must’ve been more messed up than I thought,” I said.
I remember vowing to get Larry back for that one.
It wasn’t a big deal kinda funny, actually.
Back home that night, I made some dinner, cracked a beer, and settled in for a little TV.
An innocent glance down and I noticed something else.
Little Bro’s hand didn’t have the middle finger anymore.
Now it looked like… a knife.
It wasn’t even a bad change.
Still simple lines.
But something about it felt off.
Little Bro had always had attitude, sure but now he looked threatening.
Sharp.
Hungry.
That wasn’t the message I ever wanted him to send.
I went to bed uneasy.
I woke up in the middle of the night, sweating.
I’d been chasing something but the memory slipped away like fog.
Made my way to the bathroom.
Washed my face.
Breathed.
Then I saw it…
or didn’t, I guess.
Little Bro was gone.
His spot clean.
No hat.
No shades.
No blade.
Just skin and faint red irritation where he used to live.
I rubbed my hand, expecting something masking him from me,
but he was just gone.
I’ve had tattoos fade before,
but these were touched up this last weekend.
Was it the gun Larry used?
That didn’t make sense,
but neither did this.
I went back to bed, giving up on finding the answer.
I didn’t bother turning off the bathroom light.
As I lay there staring into the smudged shadows on my wall,
I noticed something run down my arm.
I thought it was a spider and immediately started slapping at it like a cat chasing a laser.
It settled on my hand and gave me the finger.
It was Little Bro.
I was convinced I was dreaming.
How could I have known the truth?
The next morning, I got a call from Larry.
I guess Johnny never made it home and his wife had called the police.
I called out to work.
“Family emergency.”
It wasn’t a lie.
These were my boys.
I’d known them since first grade.
They were my brothers.
I texted Johnny’s wife:
“I’m so sorry. If there’s anything I can do, lmk.”
I kept expecting to see Johnny.
Everywhere I went.
At the gas station.
At the bar.
In the passenger seat while I waited at red lights.
My brain filled in the blanks like he was just running late,
and he’d come stumbling around the corner with a six-pack
and something dumb to say about my shirt.
I kept needing that to happen.
But the ache behind my eyes never left.
And that dream I don’t know.
It lingered,
a headache you forget you have until you move the wrong way.
Somewhere under that grief, though,
there was this little itch.
A thought I kept brushing off.
I kept checking my hand.
Then on a whim I decided to check my newest additions,
and my tattoo of Johnny was gone the fishing pole where his feet had been was snapped in half.
What did that mean?
I thought of Little Bro.
His smile always had attitude,
but now it was like he was watching me struggle with a puzzle he’d made and loving it.
I checked everywhere for Johnny’s stickman
in case he somehow ran off like I guess Little Bro does.
He wasn’t anywhere on me that I could tell.
I was losing my mind.
Got a call.
I let it ring.
I knew who it was I didn’t know how,
but I did.
It was Larry.
He was sobbing.
“They found Johnny…
He was stabbed to death.
His body was hidden in some bushes off the north highway.”
The world slowed
and my vision began to spin.
Larry was saying more
but I couldn’t understand.
I dropped to the floor.
Made a noise like a grunt and a cry.
“Larry, I have to go. I’m sorry.”
I hung up.
“Stabbed?” I said to myself.
I looked at Little Bro with his knife again.
That smile like he was waiting for me to connect the dots.
What was happening to me?
What was happening to my friends?
Stabbed. Hidden.
The words echoed through my body, ricocheting off my insides.
They kept multiplying,
splitting,
folding in on each other until they were the only words left.
The only word that ever existed.
Stabbed to death?
They spun in my chest,
spiraled into my ribs…
Hidden in some bushes?
Until I was like a volcano ready to blow its
Wait.
I went to the mirror.
I got the scissors and started lopping off hair.
I found him.
Johnny’s stickman.
Sprawled out like he was dragged there,
hidden away where no one would see him.
Legs straight.
Arms above his head.
He was caught off guard.
Stabbed. Hidden.
I didn’t like the way Little Bro was looking at me,
so I put on gloves and examined my other tattoos.
The construction workers looked fine.
My stickman was fine.
But Larry’s was starting to look unsure.
Scared.
I cornered Larry behind the shop during his smoke break.
He looked like hell dark crescents under his eyes,
shirt inside out,
hands trembling just enough to make the lighter fumble once, twice.
“I need to show you something,” I said.
He didn’t answer, just exhaled and waited.
I pulled down my shirt so he could see the new tattoos the ones we did that night.
“Look,” I said. "Your frown."
“..And Johnny’s guy moved. He’s not where we inked him anymore.”
Larry squinted. “Moved where?”
“Here.”
I pointed near my head,
tracing the tiny stickman like I was touching a bruise.
“He used to be next to mine. Now he’s up here.”
I took off my hat
and showed the stickman corpse of Johnny crowning me.
“What did you do to yourself?” he asked,
like he was just seeing my hairless appearance for the first time.
Larry stared.
Then he laughed but there was no joy in it.
Just smoke and exhaustion.
“Jesus, man,” he said. “You don’t sound okay.”
I didn’t answer.
I was too busy peeling back my glove.
“And Little Bro he’s not flipping the bird anymore.
He had a knife.
And then he left.
Disappeared for a while.
Came back.
And Johnny…”
Larry’s face hardened.
“You said yourself that night was a mess.
We were wasted.
I probably drew him that way.
It’s hard to remember we were shitfaced.”
“I think Little Bro killed Johnny.”
“Don’t,” Larry snapped.
“Don’t make this into something weird just because you don’t want to deal with it.”
“I am dealing with it,” I said, louder now.
“I took time off.
I’m trying to find answers.”
“Well, lucky you,” he said, voice sharp.
“Some of us don’t get to check out whenever the weird sets in.
Some of us still gotta get up, open the damn shop, and act like we didn’t lose a brother.”
He flicked his cigarette away.
Missed the bin.
Then softer:
“You think you’re the only one grieving?”
This wasn’t grief.
Something was happening to me.
And it had already taken Johnny from us.
Later that night, I sent Larry a text:
“Where you at?!”
He replied:
“Working late so I can take Friday off…”
I texted back:
“Can I talk to you in person? I want to apologize.”
A moment later:
“Yeah, I’ll meet you at the gate.
Call me when you get here.
I’ll let you in.”
I went to type see you soon…
…and froze.
His text was sent four hours ago.
The whole conversation was.
I checked my call log.
It said I called him three hours ago.
I hadn’t even left the house yet.
How was I missing so much Time?
I called him.
He didn’t pick up.
I took my shirt off and checked the ink.
Little Bro was there.
He was dragging Larry’s stickman over to the construction men,
who each took a limb.
With Little Bro organizing the effort,
they pulled Larry apart.
I tried to get them to stop,
but I wasn’t able to touch them.
Little Bro just smiled and gave me the bird.
I wanted to call Larry again,
but I knew the result would be the same.
I’d lost the two best friends I ever had,
and this little bastard was ecstatic about it.
I looked at my stickman.
He was beginning to frown.
I was pissed.
I took out the disposable razor
and found Little Bro orchestrating what to do with the remains.
I hesitated for a moment,
which gave him time to see what I was doing and run away.
I was able to peel away the construction guys.
I pressed hard against my skin with the razor.
I opened up my surgery scar took the ground out from under them, so to speak.
I found Little Bro hiding behind my head.
We played cat and mouse for a long time.
I was pushing that razor as fast as I could,
the pain stinging white-hot trails,
making my skin look patchwork.
I was on his heels.
He knew the turns he made caused me to cut myself worse.
He settled somewhere he thinks is safe.
He doesn’t think I’ll cut him out while he’s down there.
I’m not giving him the chance to get away.
I wish I had a sharper cleaver.
But it will have to do.
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