Allison's Archives

When the doctor looked at the X-ray of my ankle, he said I would make a complete recovery in no time, no surgery required. He didn’t order a scan of my heart. If he did, he would see the state of it—fractured much more permanently. He would have abandoned protocol and personally wheeled my gurney into the operating theater with haste. He would have asked, with a hitch in his throat, how I was still alive and called me a medical miracle. They would have administered anesthesia into my system under fluorescent lights and that would have been the most peace I’ve felt in years. When the time comes for the doctor to cut me open, he will inspect the four chambers of my heart with the utmost care, and what he finds will haunt him for the rest of his practicing days. 

In the first chamber, the eldest daughter spends her days scaling a glass mountain, her two primary hands pressed firmly against the boulder as she puts one trembling foot in front of the other. 

She is skeletal, wary, and sickly, her bones fracturing under the expectations that have ossified into her marrow. Her skin is pulled thinly and tightly over her frame, like a hastily stretched canvas, as if she were not made to contain all she is forced to hold. All this, of course, is sheltered under office attire, her feet shaking atop heels, but she is the last thing from pristine. A clearing blink will reveal her many arms that protrude from her back, each one tasked with a different burden responsibility. In one hand is a pen, another a sponge, another an heirloom, another a laundry hamper, another a book, another a luggage, another a generational curse, another a first-aid kit, another a rejection letter… For every responsibility accomplished, two new limbs sprout. These arms work in tandem and twitch involuntarily, but remain the least jarring feature of hers. Look! Hollowed-out eyes and a sewn-shut mouth; there is no space for tears or complaints but her belly grows from swallowing it all down. And oh! She smells of burnt-out candles and something bitter that clings to the walls like regret. The walls, the walls—illuminated by vigil candles lit for every age she has ever been and every dream she has ever put to bed. 

She makes it to the top by her last breath and the boulder comes rolling down once more, cracking over her spine like a vehicle running over a wounded pigeon—a permanent reminder that she will never be enough. But she is accustomed to the splintering, to savoring the sting of falling just short. She sacrifices not in hopes that someone would one day do the same for her but because she has adjusted to the emptiness. There is a strange comfort in the way her knees buckle under the weight, in the way the flesh squelches tenderly and begs to be whole again when she tears it off to sustain those around her—a sort of magic how she keeps giving and never runs out. 

Now and then, she stops rolling the boulder and writes her grievances on a piece of paper before forcing it down the narrows of her throat, the words mixing with her stomach acid to carve themselves around the inner walls of her body. If there are no witnesses, let there at least be a record of all she has done. The doctor, I imagine, will turn his head away from this chimeric being, gagging from the scent of devotion gone rancid, martyrdom turned putrid. 

In the second chamber, the sister withers, mouthing a made-up language incoherently as rigor mortis sets into her arms.

On the wall of this chamber hangs an ornate portrait—straining the nails on which it sits—of the brother she could always see but never reach. Growing up in next-door bedrooms, her hands would often be outstretched but always come back empty, brushing only the edges of his attention before he was called away by some force she could neither see nor wrestle, before he was lost behind gates she would never be granted entry to. Under the same roof, it was as if the air around him hummed with a need she understood but still wanted desperately to change. Something louder than her. Something she wasn’t allowed to compete with. 

It’s funny; they both grew up learning the same languages but were never quite able to comprehend each other. Sometimes sharing blood and two-thirds of a name is not enough. Any boulder he could not push fell squarely on her shoulders, but there was never any kind of resentment, only an unending attempt at understanding. Her love for him festered beneath her skin like an open wound, seeped into every interaction—an ache that survived since his birth. This love pulses like a half-dead thing; all at once nurturing and consuming. 

So, she learns language after language—some spoken and others silent—in hopes he would one day see he has a sister he can lean on, that it is alright if the other kids act differently. She writes down every sentiment she wants to express, translated over and over, and slides it under his door. He takes every sheet, folds them into paper planes, and sets them free to the wind. 

In the third chamber, the friend sits before a gourmet dinner spread, with imported china and polished silver galore. 

She has handwritten every single invitation and wet every stamp with sap distilled from a concoction of longing and support. She has decided not to trust the mailman with something of this importance and proceeded to hand deliver every envelope, not to the doors of her friends—no, it’d be rude to intrude—but just their mailboxes. She then returned home to set the table. 

The crisp white tablecloth drapes over the long oak, meticulously pressed, each fold sharp enough to cut through the air. A lavish bouquet sits as the centerpiece; crimson roses intermingled with baby’s breath, each stem cut and thorn removed, every individual petal glistening with the dew of the earth. Sprawling from around the bouquet, an array of dishes is displayed, each one unsettling in vibrance of color and aroma but nevertheless alluring. She had spent months familiarizing herself with the many techniques to culinary perfection and dog-eared a handful of cookbooks, yet, the table remains eerily untouched by the hands of others. The doctor takes a magnifying glass to her layout and notes down how everything is covered in a layer of dust and cobwebs.

She sits at the head of the table as a good host does, her skin without cracks or blemishes, like a porcelain doll come to life, like someone who has perfected the art of appearing whole—fragile as they may realistically be. Now, she, she is pristine in comparison to her counterparts. She dons a pair of gloves that run up to her elbow to hide the scars and burn marks, her hands cup her knees over her ironed dress and only move when the telephone on the right side of the dinner table rings; then, her body snaps to attention and her fingers flutter in fluid motion to the phone, but not before she wraps the cord around her neck to act as a filter for her words. When the ring does not reverberate around the chamber, there is a hum that grows with every minute the chairs around the table remain unclaimed. 

She knows nobody is coming. They will ring the phone but never the bell. They will not savor the feast she had labored over. Eventually, the door will bolt itself and the telephone will unplug itself, and she will find some semblance of peace. But peace can be so deafening in this chamber where immaculate walls are smooth like the inside of a polished safe—a stronghold designed to impress and treasure yet devoid of life. What a beautiful space where anyone would feel welcome, the doctor will think. He will observe that the steam has long left the teacups and she will keep sitting there. As if her own loneliness is the only friend she was assigned at birth. 

In the fourth chamber, the lover cradles her own body in a fetal position as the weight of the coffin closes in.

The staccato of a violin trickles in the room—inconsistent in volume but decisively present. Annoyingly so. The wood is smooth yet unyielding against her skin, and she thinks about softer hands that have once grazed parts of herself she can no longer stand to look at. There is barely any freedom to move but that is less of a concern than the mystery of who had hammered down the nails of the coffin in the first place. On whose head was the blame to be placed? Whose burden was it to justify that blame?

A merciful pin-sized hole in the lid allows slivers of light to pierce the darkness, illuminating the dust motes that float aimlessly in the stale air, a cruel reminder that there are things out there accessible to others except her. What she has done to deserve this, she knows not. Through this minuscule opening, she watches as the phantoms of her past loves slide across the walls—slowly but ever so surely, taking their time in stride as they leave her field of vision. She longs and she longs, not to unwind any kind of clock, but to take strides of her own. How can she leave? How is she to move on if she is a victim of circumstance and being taken for granted? 

And in this entrapment, days bleed into nights in a manner that would discombobulate anyone. She no longer has a sense of time or self or love. Whoever can heal in an environment designated for decay? So, with her right hand, she claws her fingernails into the lid and carves a narrative with the least survivors. When her energy is depleted, she lies and lets her other senses take over. The reading of eulogies over her becomes audible but she can’t make out the words. It’s as if cotton had been stuffed into her ears. There’s no telling if she is being cursed or mourned in the eulogies. There’s no telling which is worse. And oh! The violin! Won’t it turn off! The doctor’s inspection yields this observation: That she had been running her left hand past the rungs of her ribs to try to get to her heart so she could stop the feeling. All feelings. 

But won’t you look at that? It seems someone is coming with a crowbar and a bag of stitches. 

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When he is done, the doctor will find me whole yet fractured, a collection of horrors masquerading as a heart. Four chambers, each thrumming with its own grotesque form, and somehow, they keep me alive. How great is it that they all live in chambers of the heart! Where the ink blood flows and flows and flows!

The doctor will marvel at the sight, at the way this misshapen thing still beats, pumping blood through a body that has known nothing but strain, emptiness, hunger, and violence. He will wonder if there is any cure.

The anesthesia will wear off. I will sit upright and smile at the doctor.

“Is everything alright? Will I be fine?”

It is impossible to be a good daughter, sister, friend, and lover. Not all at once. Not individually. So I stay being a good writer. The least blood ink I will waste.