A box of saltines… a damn box of saltines wedged in between the fridge and the wall—the one place I hadn’t looked yet. The cupboards held cans I can’t open, bread too stale to choke down, and mouse turds. How did I miss this box of crackers?

I bend and snake one wiry arm down to grab it. My chest drops at the empty weight of the cardboard before my brain can catch up. No crackers. Of course not. My stomach decides to mock me just then with a growl. It had been two weeks since Dad came home with a few boxes from the food pantry. I always say I’ll be good and ration it. I’m a liar. “God damnit Ryan,” he’d said when I ate all the apples. Later that night I threatened him with the brass knuckles I stole when he tried to throw out Sasha’s blankets.

Sasha—my little sister. Drugs took most of her hearing in the womb, and then the cold stole her breath. I piled every blanket I could find on the air mattress and even laid next to her. Dad said we’d take her to the hospital in the morning. Instead they came in a van and took her away in a blue body bag.

Now it’s warm again and I’m so hungry.

I dropped the empty saltine box into the trash on my way out. The warped porch boards threaten to break under my feet.

Mrs. Donavan, the widowed black lady behind us, makes me a sandwich when I do chores for her, but she’s visiting her daughter. “Good lord boy, I can see your ribs through your shirt!” she’d say, while handing me a pb and j with chunky peanut butter. She doesn’t even like it, but her late husband did. Chunky peanut butter, her theoretical blanket pile.

Mom says the blankets are dirty. Our whole trailer is dirty.

The matted orange cat that wanders around the park walks beside me for a few steps. He loses interest once he realizes I don’t have any food. “I’m just as hungry, Otis.” I’m sure I’m the only one to call him that. He deserves a name.

I catch myself signing his name with my left hand, and then the alphabet. I think I can probably sign the alphabet in my sleep at this point.

The dumpsters behind Fastway never have anything good on Tuesdays. On Friday night when Krystal is working she sneaks me sandwiches that are past the sell-by date. She asked me once why I still sign while talking to her. I didn’t answer but I think she figured it out. Sasha was the only person who made Krystal smile. That first Friday after, when I showed up alone hoping for a sandwich I would throw back up, Krystal told me time heals everything, and if nothing else, tomorrow can get me through today. At the time tomorrow was a brick wall—an obstacle I didn’t want to think about. I hated waking up in the morning, thinking everything was okay for those few seconds, and then remembering. Bodhi is gone, and now Sasha is gone. I’m the only one left. For years it was Bodhi, Sasha and Ryan existing in this trailer park—the asscrack of Gehenna. Now, it’s just Ryan, trying to exist, and trying to find some food.

Five bikes, two of them Harleys, parked in a line by Alphie’s house just outside the park. His wife, Joy, and a woman with hair so blonde its white stand smoking on the rickety redwood deck. Loud laughter spills out from the open door, and the chorus of Sweet Home Alabama swells behind them.

As if answering my prayers, Joy calls out: “Ryan, want a burger? We have plenty left over.”

My feet can’t cross the alley fast enough. I don’t care how hungry and desperate I look. I am hungry and desperate. “Thanks.” I tell her, meaning every letter.

“It’s Gale’s birthday tonight. We had a little cookout.”

Her words barely register. My stomach leads me into the house. The two women follow.

“Hey, it’s Whistler!” Alphie calls from his green chair in the living room. A shirtless man on a stool beside him holds up his arm, examining a fresh tattoo.

“Hey Alphie.”

“Fix yourself a burger, we got plenty,” he says, tinkering with his tattoo gun. “This is the kid I told you about. The one who can whistle like a pro,” he tells his blank canvas. The guy nods halfheartedly, far more interested in his new ink than in me or my whistling.

My mouth waters at the smell. A platter with a few burger patties and grill marked hotdogs waits on the green formica table. I load one up with cheese, mustard and tomato. A bite of heaven almost brings me to tears.

Cigarette smoke hovers everywhere, and the spicy smell of weed hangs out in the background like the awkward kid at the party. What Krystal told me pops back up in my head. I chew the burger slowly, trying to get every bit of taste. Tomorrow isn’t such a daunting thought when I’m full. I’m still chewing the first burger when I start making a second one. No one offered me two. Alphie’s biker friends talk about who went to Sturgis this year, what they got at the swap meet last week, who saw whose old lady out with another guy. No one cares about my second burger.

Tomorrow. I repeat the word in my head over and over again, and realize I’m signing it. T-O-M-O-R-R-O-W. Eight letters. Sasha’s ring glints on my pinky. Jackie, the stripper next door gave it to her. A creepy customer gave it to Jackie and she didn’t want it. It made Sasha happy. A real ruby set in silver according to Jackie. But who knows. I took it off Sasha’s cold, chalk-white finger that morning and refused to take it off my own finger since. It fit perfectly on my pinky, where it had been loose on her index.

Alphie asks if anyone else wants ink before he puts the gun away. Eight letters. Eight knuckles. “I do.” I say way too loud, with a mouth full of burger. Stray tomato juice drips on my lip.

A few of the guys laugh.

I carry the rest of my second burger with me into the living room so no one will throw it out. “Alphie. I’m serious. I want tomorrow on my knuckles.”

Alphie rubs a hand down his face. “You want knuckle ink at sixteen? That’s a big decision, Whistler.”

“You’re either really stupid or you got some big balls, dude.” A long haired guy in a Pantera shirt says with a quick yuck-yuck laugh.

“I want it.” I tell him before shoving the rest of the burger in my mouth. “Let’s do it now before I change my mind.”

Alphie puffed his cigarette. “Well, it’s your body,”

The previous tattooee pulled his shirt back on and got up from the chair. I lower myself into the still warm seat. My old knock-off Chucks look so pathetic next to Alphie’s massive leather boots. He loved to brag about his size sixteen feet and genuine “shitkickers.” And Joy was even known to make ‘you know what they say about big feet.’ jokes.

“I used to babysit the three of them,” Joy is telling the white haired woman, while Alphie digs through his tools. “Gotta use a single needle. It’s gonna hurt like a hell.”

“It’s okay.” I say, still licking the taste of burger from my lips. Who knows when I’ll eat next.

“The other boy died a few years ago. It was a freak accident… and then the girl died of pneumonia last winter.”

“Oh no, that poor family.”

“Parents are too busy partyin’ to give a shit.”

Alphie slides a small black table over and tells me to put my hands out. “You’re gonna have to take off the pinky ring.”

Something stings in my solar plexus, and then my eyes. It’s not the smoke. I swallow hard and look up at him, his grizzled face softens and he nods. “Okay, I’ll do that one last.”

He draws each letter by hand, when he hovers over my pinky, ready to draw the W, I shake my head and keep my eyes on the floor.

The pain is exquisite, but comforting. As he etches an old English T into my right pinky, I make a fist and hold my palm out with my other hand, thumb tucked between my index and middle finger. When he moves on to the O, I curl my thumb and fingers into the sign for O. I’ll sign everything for the rest of my life, if it keeps me from forgetting.

“Told you it’d hurt, didn’t I?”

“I don’t care.” I whisper.

Gale, the birthday girl, wearing a green sash that says so and a glittery party hat, leans forward and asks me what this means to me.

“It’s for my sister.” I manage without cracking.

When the third O is complete, Alphie looks up at me. “You need to take the ring off, sorry.”

My lip still tastes like grilled beef and tomatoes. I tell myself it’s the smoke stinging my eyes. Some smartass remark would make it all less heavy. But my throat is clogged, like the shower at home no one has bothered to fix.

I slide the ring off my pinky. Sasha’s hand was cold when I took it off her. Mom and dad didn’t even notice it was gone.

“I’ll be quick,” Alphie said.

I nod, screw my eyes shut, and start signing the alphabet with my free hand. Each knuckle burns when I move my fingers. The sign for X still trips me up. I can’t forget… It would be like forgetting her.

My fingers curl around the ring so tight that blood seeps from the TOMO tattooed on them. I straighten up in the hard chair to hide the shake in my shoulders, and wipe at my tears with my bloody, clenched fist.

The pull deep inside won’t stop pulling, and soon I don’t have the energy to fight it anymore.

Joy lays a hand on my shoulder and offers a puff of her joint. “It’s okay honey,” she whispers, stroking my hair like my mother never has. “I know you miss her. I know.”

As if on autopilot, I put my arm around her and bury my face in her curly hair. For the first time since Sasha died, the damn dam breaks. A sound comes out of me that is the opposite of a whistle.

“Bless your heart, kiddo. Just let it out.” Her smoker’s voice is beautiful. The pain of the W being tattooed where the ring has been for months stops, and a cool cloth wipes ink from my hand.

“What was her name?” Someone asks.

“Sasha,” I choke out in a voice that isn’t mine.

“To Sasha,” someone says. A dozen brown bottles rise.

My eyes are still sore when I walk back to the trailer, feet lighter from weed and catharsis. Maybe tomorrow I’ll leave this trailer park, or even this city for good. Or maybe I’ll smoke my last cigarette… go back to high school… actually do something with my life. Maybe tomorrow.

Author’s Note:

Thanks for reading! Don’t be afraid to comment. I like to know someone is reading my stories and that my contributions are being noticed.

Sympathy For The Devil was written By Mick Jagger, not by me. I don’t claim any ownership.

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The image above was created with DALL-E and modified by me with Photoshop. In the future when life slows down a bit, I plan to use my own art for these stories. But for now, this works.

Thanks for reading.

V.