Teeth

by Owen, Kelli

  His thoughts drifted as he hung the boards to enclose the space. It started to feel like a room, the bare bulb he had hung up high in the floor joists began casting shadows on new walls, and his thoughts drifted toward the finished product. He would only need a few things to call the room ready, once the walls were up and the door was affixed.

  He looked up as if he could see through the floor and thought of the layout of the house. The room sat right beneath the kitchen. Whenever he was feasting on blood, banging pots and pans to cook, or clinking the glasses in the cupboard in preparation for a drink, his guest might be able to hear. Might know what those noises meant.

  Above the kitchen was his mother’s room. He missed her, but he smiled at the fortunate turn of events in her absence. Her room had been mostly packed up—her belongings given away, sold, or stashed in the basement. Only her bed and dresser were still upstairs, and the broken music box she loved so much still sitting on the dresser because he didn’t know exactly what to do with it. The mattress—no frame, no box spring—could be dragged down here for his guest.

  No chairs or dressers though. Nothing she can stand on.

  She.

  Henry smiled.

  He knew he’d be choosing a female for his guest. He didn’t know who, or from where. He would look over his various Facebook groups after dinner and see if anyone looked like the perfect target—single, not many friends, very few pictures with other people, quiet online so an absence won’t be noticed for a while, if ever. Yes, Henry had an idea what criteria would make the perfect resident for his new little room without a view. On the physical side of things, he didn’t really care if she was blonde or brunette, fat or thin, but thought a chubbier person might be easier to overpower and would have more body, more tissue, more blood. Or perhaps, if he could find someone who looked like his father’s new wife. Wouldn’t that be—

  Henry shrieked in pain.

  The idea of secret justice against his father had caused him to slip with the drill, and he’d dragged the bit through the edge of his finger below the first knuckle. The open pocket of flesh immediately burned from exposure to air and began to bleed heavily. Without thought, Henry shoved the wound to his mouth like a small child.

  As his finger began to throb, Henry swallowed a spoonful of his own blood and pulled his hand away. He studied the wound, a gaping tear in his flesh with exposed meat beneath, and considered the taste in his mouth.

  My own blood.

  The thought had never occurred to him. It seemed wrong and twisted. He obviously couldn’t survive for long if he fed on himself.

  But what if… just a little?

  He put the finger back to his mouth and let his tongue explore the injury, keeping the tissue wet, preventing it from clotting or resealing like a smaller wound will often do. He suckled at his finger, letting the taste wash over him mentally as the blood spread thin across his tongue.

  How much can you swallow of your own blood before you pass out from blood loss?

  He knew how much blood he could put in his stomach before he vomited. He’d learned that the very first time, with the jogger on the bridge. Too much, too fast, and his stomach reacted in panic as if it were his own internal injury. The nausea had taken him over less than a block away from the bridge and he’d had to pull over and vomit. All the beautiful blood he’d managed to suckle from the dead man’s neck, wasted, laying there in the moonlight mixed with spit and bile on the loose gravel of the road’s shoulder.

  The second victim had gone much smoother. Henry had driven out to the bridge and sat in the dark with his headlights off, hoping for another jogger. Another accident. When nothing happened, he drove around the seedier parts of town. He couldn’t stomach the idea of a homeless person, so he crossed the tracks and slowly drove through several of Riverside’s unkempt trailer parks. The large man sleeping in his living room with his door wide open had been a fluke. A present from the universe. And he’d taken advantage of the gift.

  Parking down the road, he backtracked through the dark lots to the trailer, slipped inside and shut the door. Sneaking quietly through the living room, he stopped in front of the heavy man and pulled the ice pick from his back pocket.

  He’d purchased the ice pick at the hardware store over in Springfield the day before, knowing he wanted more blood, needed more, and what he’d have to do to get it. Some searching online taught him why the first one had bled the way he did, and Henry knew now he had to puncture deep enough to hit the interior jugular, the thicker of the two, which would flow better, longer, before collapsing. The key had worked enough because it had been a larger wound, and messy. This would be cleaner. Like the movies. Like the myth. A twisted metaphor, as a shiny silver tooth puncturing their veins for his meal.

  The idea he was going to kill someone had never bothered him. He had only mildly, and quite briefly, wondered how long he’d been willing and not known it.

  He looked at the unconscious man’s neck and swung the ice pick a couple times to practice. As if it were nothing more than a golf swing you wanted to get right. Henry froze midair.

  What if I miss?

  Instead of swinging with a hopeful stab or possible frantic bevy of jabs, Henry had an idea. He held the ice pick still, barely off the man’s neck and lined up where he wanted to strike. He watched the man’s sleeping face, his steady breath, and smiled at the prospect of his short future. When Henry was sure of his placement, he brought his other hand down hard and fast and drove the pick into the man’s neck.

  The man immediately opened his eyes and tried to scream, but it came out a garbled tumble of unintelligible sounds as he immediately gurgled on his own blood. Henry put a knee to the man’s groin and a hand to his shoulder, pinning him down. The pick had gone in much deeper than the key had with the jogger. The ice pick had pierced the skin and then sunk all the way to the handle, burying the steel beyond the intended vein and deep into the man’s throat. He pulled the pick free and dropped it to the floor, retrieving the old pickle jar he’d brought with and putting it to the man’s neck to collect the oozing blood.

  Fascinated, he watched the man’s expression as he gulped for air but only found blood. Henry didn’t understand what was happening. He thought a stab to the neck would immediately kill the man like they showed in so many movies. He watched the man choke and gasp, coughing bloody spittle at Henry, as the man’s eyes widened in fear before finally relaxing in death. Henry would learn later—as he searched the Internet for answers—the man’s trachea had been stabbed as well. The man hadn’t simply bled out, but he’d also bled internally. He had been initially unable to breathe, and then literally drowned in his own blood as the wound seeped into his lungs, while Henry was collecting it in the pickle jar.

  When the man’s heart stopped, the flow of blood turned to a trickle. Henry took the jar away and leaned in to suckle the blood around the wound, but pulled back at the last minute. He wasn’t disposing of this body. He couldn’t leave his saliva here.

  And I have what I want.

  Henry smiled at the blood. He capped the jar, retrieved the ice pick and slipped back outside—leaving the door open, exactly as he’d found it.

  In the car, Henry had taken several gulps of the blood but felt his stomach almost immediately react like it had the previous time. He felt the nausea and a muscle spasm, which could precursor vomit, and stopped drinking. He capped the jar and realized he’d have to enjoy it in small doses. Or perhaps cook with it.

  And it will last so much longer.

  At least it used to last longer, Henry thought, as he pulled his damaged finger away from his mouth again. He looked from the wound to the half-built room.

  His stomach grumbled and he panicked for a moment, before he realized he was hungry and not reacting to his own blood. He set the drill’s battery in its charger and headed for the stairs. He’d done en
ough work for the day. He was eager for more blood, but knew he’d have it soon enough.

  In the meantime, he had a fresh cow liver from the butcher sitting in a container in his fridge. He didn’t care about the liver, so much as the blood it was swimming in. He could enjoy it after a quick meal of reheated leftover pizza. He knew it wouldn’t be the same. He knew the liver and the blood wouldn’t taste right. But he hadn’t bought it to eat. He had purchased it for lubrication.

  — THIRTY-FIVE —

  Andrea braced the front door with a foot on either side of it, holding it still in its open state. The screen was closed and she reached over to flick the simple lock under the handle with her thumb for precautionary measures—as if someone who truly wanted to get inside couldn’t rip the mesh panel. She glanced at the little bit of neighborhood she could see from her doorway. It was quiet. An unusually warm day for October, she would have expected more people out and about after church.

  Maybe they’re not home yet, or in their backyards. She pondered and listened beyond her living room television to the silence of neighbors among the tiny noises of nature outside. She could neither hear nor see anyone.

  And hopefully, no one is paying attention to me either.

  She grabbed the screwdriver from the top of the small bookcase near the front door and began taking the doorknob off. Changing the locks was as simple as swapping out the knobs on the front and back doors, as well as replacing the deadbolt. They were each the exact model as what was currently on the doors, but they came with new keys.

  She needed to feel safer.

  She was halfway there—glancing through the kitchen to the back door she’d just finished updating.

  The brass knob came loose in her hand as soon as the first screw was pulled free, and she worried it wasn’t enough to stop anyone anyway. But looking at the deadbolt above the knob, she reminded herself she had an enhanced level of protection.

  She wasn’t worried about Dillon being upset about his key not fitting. He’d suggested she do it, when he called to tell her he wasn’t coming home.

  When the phone rang the night before, Andrea had jumped, startled by the sudden noise in the otherwise quiet house.

  She had turned the television off and was sitting in the living room, curled up on the couch with a baseball bat she’d found in the garage—buried in a large box of Dillon’s forgotten sporting attempts. She wouldn’t be able to hear him break in if the television was on, so she sat in silence, vigilant. But she was not prepared for the shrill barking of her cellphone’s default ringer.

  She grabbed at the phone to shut it up, but when she saw the name at the top of the screen, she froze rather than saying hello.

  “Mom? Mom, are you there?”

  Andrea could hear her son’s voice and knew the silence would be mistaken for a bad connection and he’d just call back if she didn’t answer.

  “I’m here. Where are you?” She tried to sound like a worried parent, rather than a worried human. She tried to wrap her fear around the model of motherhood she was supposed to be.

  “I’m safe. That’s why I’m calling.”

  “Oh? But where? Where are you?” She glanced at the windows. “Why’d you leave?”

  The silence on the phone made Andrea wonder why he was thinking so long about his answer. Was he going to lie? Was he outside?

  “I don’t feel safe there.” Dillon’s voice was soft, quiet, as if he’d whispered a secret to her.

  “You don’t feel—” She stopped herself from finishing, hearing the inflection in her voice, the shock she felt at his words. He doesn’t feel safe? What about me?

  “I just think maybe it’s for the best.”

  “For… Well, for how long?” She needed to be prepared for his return.

  “Indefinitely, Mom. Unless you stop watching all that hate on television. I am what I am, Mom. And you hate what I am.”

  She couldn’t argue with him. He was right and Andrea knew it. But she had no idea what to do or say now that he’d thrown it in her face.

  “Have you ever even met another lamian, Mom? Have you ever had your own experience with one? Or just the crap you watch on TV?”

  “I—” She tried to explain herself, suddenly on the defensive. As if I’m the bad person here?

  “You’re full of hate and fear, Mom. And you don’t have a reason for either of them.” She heard Dillon take a deep breath. “I’m at a safe house. And I’m staying here until I graduate. Then I’ll get my own place and move out and figure out my life. If you want to be part of it, you can call me or text me. Maybe we can visit.”

  “You’re going to leave me alone?” She meant it in the sense that he wasn’t going to hurt her, but it sounded more like she was afraid to be abandoned.

  “Yeah I am. Change the locks if it makes you feel better.”

  Oh God, he heard it the way I meant it.

  “But your stuff—”

  “I took what I wanted. If I need anything else, I can call you and set up a time to come get it.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure. Just know I’m fine.” He paused a beat and added, “And so are you. Good-bye, Mom.”

  The phone went silent and she looked at it. The call timer had stopped. He’d hung up.

  And her heart suddenly ached. The pictures on the wall didn’t show a lamian—they showed her son. A son she had pushed away. A son she was still afraid of, a son she considered dead, but loved. Her internal conflict twisted into tears. Not a chest-heaving sob, but a quiet acceptance of loss. Silent tears ran down her face unchecked, and she eventually fell asleep, still clutching the baseball bat.

  When she woke she knew she’d do exactly what he suggested and change the locks. Maybe he wouldn’t come in and attack her, but it didn’t hurt to be safe.

  She went to church and the café as if nothing was wrong, never mentioning to the girls her son had run away. “Moved out,” sounds better, she thought. She stopped and purchased the three replacement locks on her way home and was almost done adding a layer to her sense of security.

  The television returned from commercial and the afternoon desk jockey for the weekend news program declared they had breaking video in the nationally covered altercation, which had happened the previous evening. Andrea tore the wrapper off and pulled the shiny brass knob free, her attention on the news program.

  In a town she’d never heard of before, and wouldn’t be able to find on a map—made famous now only for the protest-turned-riot the previous night, there was a rough, phone-recorded video of three police officers and a young man not much older than Dillon. According to what she’d been hearing so far, the young man, a known lamian protester, had refused to stop when police questioned where he was going. He had a small sign in his hands that read LAMIAN LIVES MATTER, which had been knocked to the ground during the arrest.

  The video began with the police asking him where he was going. He stopped immediately and turned around to address them and their question.

  That’s not how they explained it earlier.

  The boy pointed down the street, the subtitles put there by the station claimed he said he was “just going to join my friends in the square for a peaceful protest.” He turned to continue on his way.

  What happened next was fast, and violent. The taller officer barked something at him. The station did not put his words on the screen and Andrea couldn’t quite make it out, but it didn’t sound friendly or professional.

  The cop to his left roughly grabbed at the boy, while the third took the sign and tossed it.

  The first officer then stepped in front of the protestor, angrily gripping the boy’s forearm and twisting it around, forcing the frightened youth to spin so the arm was now behind his back. The officer then kicked the back of the boy’s leg with his bent knee, forcing him
to go down to the ground.

  The second cop followed him down, his hand reaching for and making purchase on the scruff of his neck, pushing his face hard into the pavement.

  An audible thud was followed by the protestor wailing. “I didn’t do nothing!” The video zoomed in on his face. Blood ran freely from his already swelling nose.

  The third cop was suddenly in front of the camera. Before a hand blocked the frame and the screen went black, Andrea could see the boy’s sign lying against the curb. Broken, like his nose.

  “Jesus.” She crossed herself. Did they need to be so rough?

  The video cut away and the camera was now on the anchor again. “The boy is being held for resisting arrest and assaulting a police officer. Several other arrests were made as the protest turned to violence overnight.”

  Resisting arrest? Andrea wondered how much happened before and after the little bit they showed in the clip. She walked over to the couch and grabbed the remote.

  Maybe I should see what the other channels are saying. At least until I have all the locks changed.

  — THIRTY-SIX —

  Connor watched the crowd casually stroll, talking in pairs and small groups, as they slowly made their way out of the front door of the Lamplight Foundation’s Riverside Manor. The Monday meeting had gone longer than usual and the detective sat in his car, politely waiting for the attendees to leave. After the first few visitors appeared on the front sidewalk, he exited his car and approached the building, stepping off the sidewalk and allowing people to pass him.