“Mouths” is a fiction story presented in installments. Look for a new chapter each Monday morning throughout the summer.
I wake from dark dreams to the nightmarish sound of the mouths moving in an alien uniformity. The teeth scraping together with regular precision sound like gears. Their moans are not human. I preferred my dreams, but know there is no return.
My hands have changed. I now have a mouth in the palm of each hand. They are the same size as the others, an inch in diameter. The teeth are razor sharp, eager to tear into the fabric of the world with an unending hunger. They close into slits, open rapaciously, close again, like voracious eyes. I suppress the gorge rising in the back of my throat. Vomiting will not help. I look down at my body. There are more. Mouths move where I once had skin: they cover my arms and chest. They gleam, shining in the little light that fights into the darkness of my bedroom. So many mouths, so many little teeth, so many openings. They move incessantly. In uniform. They do not stop their groaning hum.
I stand, afraid to touch anything. I need to see how things are. I take a deep breath and walk to my mirror. My neck and face are okay. The back of my hands are normal, as are my wrists. My legs are still my own flesh. I can stand. I can walk. I can do this. I can be this. Dry heaves. I am hungry. I find an old gym shirt, which I hadn’t washed even though I hadn’t played basketball for three months. I put it on; the mouths shred it in moments. They still move. They’re not satisfied. They’re still hungry. I’m hungry. I can’t go out like this. I must feed.
I walk to the kitchen and flick the switch. I’ve mostly been eating more at Sheila’s. There are scraps of food. Trash. An old magazine. Nothing. The noise grows louder. Now that I’m awake, they’re more demanding. Something ugly growls beneath the grind of teeth. Not words. But communicating. No. I don’t want to listen to what they say. I go to the bathroom, keeping the light off. I don’t want to see myself again. I close the door, and lean against the mirror. I don’t want to see it. Them. Me.
The mouths continue moving. I want to cry, to be angry, to feel myself, to feel anything but their hunger. I stand up, kicking the flimsy wood partition. It cracks. I push myself against it, moving my chest against the glass, my hands pushing against the door. The door splinters beneath my palms, but the cheap glass remains untouched by the mouths on my chest. I feel them straining against my skin, stretching it with craving and I pull the mirror off to devour the wood behind it. It’s something. The mouths feast. Splinters fly and disappear. The small part of me that survived from yesterday briefly contemplates what this will do to my security deposit. The mouths quickly finish consuming that part of me. Nothing is the same.
The sacrifice appeases something, though. The groans recede, although I remain troubled by the dark thoughts lurking even in the relative quiet. I look down. The mouths remain closed, glinting in quiescent slits. I put on another shirt. Then a heavy jacket. I speak aloud: “I will feed you. Please stay closed.” I will it. They comply, or seem to. I don’t know if they hear my words or thoughts. It could be coincidence. I am sweating. I look at the mirror in the living room. I look normal. I keep my hands to myself. Car keys are in my jacket pocket, where I can extract them without touching my palm to my thighs. I need to touch with fingers only. Sheila must be upset. I feel bad for her, for a moment, and then look at my own flesh. My mouth twists into a grimace that falls short of a smile. She doesn’t know what problems are.
I decide to simply walk to the corner store. Selection doesn’t matter. I just need to feed them. Something. Food. I wonder where where the food goes when they feast. Inside me? Something echoes, inside, where the mouths go. Questions give rise to more questions. They sense me listening. Beneath the mouths. I don’t want to think of where. Or how. Or what. Especially not what. No. I stop listening. I turn to answers. Things I know. Food. Peanut butter. Bread.
The early morning sun feels unusually hot. The air is still. Suffocating. A few birds croak listlessly from the wires strung over the parking lot. Glass from shattered bottles glints in a sparkling testament to late night despair. The asphalt is damp with the reek of booze processed by bodies, dripping from pores, puddled in vomit and urine. Nothing moves. Life gets lived elsewhere.
The fluorescent lights of the store glare. The floor is newly mopped. I stumble toward the shelf of staple goods and grab a cheap jar of peanut butter festooned with a cartoon clown and two loaves of bread sheathed in stay-fresh plastic. It isn’t worth noting the expiration date. I pay with my debit card, scanning it, keeping my palms down. The clerk seems unusually chipper, listening to William Tyler on the radio, the perfunctory red vest stained with something. “Peanut butter, huh? Time for breakfast! My mom always told me it was the most important part of the day. Yours must have, too!” He starts placing the items into a plastic sack.
Sweat drenches me. I clench my muscles, willing the mouths to stay quiet. I need to leave. Soon. I voice words: “My mother died when I was five.” He looks confused. I’m surprised. I would have figured that the neighborhood had a higher asshole quotient. “She didn’t tell me anything.” I grab the bag and head out the door. It jingles something sad and broken.
“Have a nice one, buddy!” Some people never learn.
I dangle the handle of the plastic bag on my fingers, walking back across the parking lot, crossing the street, passing the pay phone on the corner, moving past the defeated strip mall with its last ditch stores, finding my own parking lot. I walk up the stairs. Open the door. Close it. I take off the jacket and my shirt, hoping to feel relieved of the weight, but my sweat sticks to me. I feel slick. Breathing is difficult.
I go to the table, dump the bread and peanut butter out. The failure of the cartoonish colors to make the generic exciting makes me more sad than it should. Somebody was trying. I spin open the faded red plastic lid with my fingertips, and undo the plastic tie. My shoulder aches, and I feel a whir as the mouths begin to move. Something dark groans as the teeth grind. I shove the white bread into the peanut butter and push it into my shoulder.
Nothing. I feel the greasy texture of peanut butter against my shoulder, near the mouth. The mouth refuses it. I clench the bread in my fist of my right hand. My palm refuses it. I shove it into my chest as the mouths, suddenly coming to life, teeth grinding faster and faster, the mouths twisting out of my body as though I imprison them. They don’t want peanut butter. They don’t want bread. They don’t want wood. Something aches. My tongue feels parched, emptied of a copper flavor. Raw heat. Muscle. Darkness. I shake my head. No.
The mouths keep twisting as they chew the air around them. I want to cry but it hurts too much. It twists out from the inside where nothing is supposed to grow. I’m still hungry. I shove another piece of bread into the peanut butter and put it into my mouth. Chew. Swallow. The mouths continue their weird chorus, writhing out from me. Gnashing. Not wood. Not bread. My mouth is dry. I need a drink. I open the fridge. Beer. Freezer. Vodka. I take a glass from the cupboard. They don’t like glass. Glass is safe. I pour half a glass. Drink it. Again. Mouths pull against me. I know their dark logic. I don’t want what they want. I stumble to the table. I need to eat more. Bread. Peanut butter. Mouth. Too much vodka. Vomit. Into the sink. I should rinse it, but palm mouths grind against the handle of the faucet. Fingers only. I want blackness. The mouths can’t feed if I pass out.
The vodka numbs my mind, then body. Its cheap odors drown out the damage. I regret not cleaning the sink, but it is beyond me. An idea forms. Bottle back on the counter. Close my eyes. Mouths start to move. Louder. The moan is louder. The mouths were made for eating, not talking. They twist inarticulately, teeth grinding.
I hold my hands together. The mouths kiss. Pain. No. I can’t close my hands. They repel each other, the lips and teeth refuse to meet. The mouths are strong in their revulsion. Slippery fingers. Something is bleeding. Chewing. So hungry. Pain. Vodka in the blood on my fingers. The mouths all move. Together. Noise. It echoes. My body responds to their sound. The chorus is within me. Their song. Can’t vomit again. Keep the vodka inside. I need it now. Sun is rising. New day. I stumble past the broken hinges leading to the bathroom and find my bed. I lie down on my back. Not my chest. Palms up. Need to lay like this. Need to keep the bed nice. My eyes close. Darkness. Dark sounds. Dark. Blackout.
