Tiny Baby Teeth

Fred had always thought Vera to be simpleminded, but when he saw her prop his beautiful blue ceramic bowl on the top rack of the dishwasher, he was certain of it. Fred did not like the dishwasher; not its sloshing sound; nor the soapy residue it left behind, discernible as soon as you licked the bowl clean.

Fred didn’t know what the world saw in women like Vera, clad in sensible gray pantsuits and comfortable-looking heels. If Fred had been a female, he would’ve had a sensual stride and mysterious gaze; sadly, his elegance and charm were wasted on the body of a male, his pudgy belly protruding in a way that screamed domesticity. He felt it in the way Vera sometimes rubbed his stomach before she went to bed. Fred despised how she continuously crossed his boundaries. He’d made that clear the first time, when he’d swatted her hand away with a force that made her frown. She continued. He didn’t know if it was an action performed out of a need to dominate or plain stupidity. He guessed the latter. Vera had never been good at reading body language. Other people who visited their apartment avoided Fred at all costs, even after Vera told them that he looked mean but was a big teddy bear. An embarrassing reduction; from predator to plushy. Their visitors looked at Vera with skepticism. Maybe they sensed there was more behind his vertically elongated pupils. Maybe they sensed he would have clawed his way right through them if given the chance.

Vera clung to him all day and night, watching his every move. She told him what to do. When to wake, when to sleep, what to eat and what not to.

Then one day. She shoved up his upper lip to show her guests how cute his tiny baby teeth were. He hissed and clawed at her and hid under their bed for the rest of the night, brooding. Two eyes lit up in the dark.

Vera took a sleeping pill each night. She didn’t notice when he nestled himself on top of her face, blocking every airway. She could have startled awake at some point, but no. Fred found it quite hilarious; how soundly she slept next to a domesticated predator.

They didn’t find Vera for several weeks—the best of his life. By the time the authorities opened the door, Vera was halfway gone, and Fred was twice his usual size, in spite of those tiny teeth glimmering in his maw.

You Can Come Out Now

The first time I locked Martha in the basement, she was twelve years old and dressed like a whore. I don’t remember why I locked her in there. Maybe it was because she stole Mom’s red lipstick and left kissing marks on my mirror, or she tried to get attention from one of my girlfriends when we were playing video games. She was always lurking around the corner. I was just trying to live my life like any normal teenager. She came out during the most inopportune moments. Whenever Stacy and I were watching a movie on the couch, or when Heather came over after church so we could paint our nails rainbow colors, or before gym class, when all the girls were changing in the locker room; Martha would barge in.

When she turned sixteen, I locked her in the basement for eight years. Mom had found her on the couch with Stacy. ‘Bad Reputation’ was smudged on Stacy’s mouth, her neck, her bare stomach. We agreed that it was best to lock up Martha until she understood that good Catholic girls marry decent Catholic boys.

Years later, I was standing on the patio of my favorite bar on Hanover Street. I smelled sandalwood and vanilla, blonde locks tickled my nose as she leaned in for a hug; Stacy’s honey-colored eyes pierced mine and I couldn’t believe I managed to trap Martha in that basement for all those years, Hell or not. How had she not clawed her way out? Kicked down the door? Stacy’s smile led me back to that basement.

We went back to my childhood home the next day. I hadn’t talked to Mom since I moved out at eighteen. She screamed when she saw my pierced nose and my tattooed arm linked through Stacy’s. She screamed when I smashed our family portrait on the floor; Mom in a navy-blue skirt, Dad in his Sunday suit, me in my plaid knee-length dress. Martha should stay in the basement, and I should move on with my life, marry that nice carpenter boy from across the street. But how to live with vinegar when you’ve tasted Stacy?

Stacy stayed back. I had to free Martha for myself. I kicked in the basement door and there she was, still wearing “Bad Reputation” on her lips. She flashed me a hesitant smile, a bit of red on her teeth, as if telling me to bare mine, to rip everything apart, to make them all bleed like we did. So, I do.

We walk through the once-locked door that now hangs half off its hinges. We walk past our screaming mother. Teeth stained red with lipstick we wished was blood. We walk up to Stacy and paint ‘Bad Reputation’ on her lips. She’s worn this shade for years. Our swollen mouths uncover our teeth. We feel the sun. We lick our lips and taste it all.