James heard his two extra mouths whispering, one in each ear, but he was done with debating. He drew the hammer from his pocket and glanced up at the stars. Nothing dissuaded him. He was overcome by a fierce certainty.
Nigel murmured as he neared; he sounded irritable. James kept hiding, counting his steptwat’s steps, telling himself that on 13 he would pounce.
When James rounded the corner, Nigel jumped.
The pint glass shattered at their feet and his steptwat’s lidded eyes sprang open. “Shitpool?”
James swung the hammer into Nigel’s ribs. There was a crunch and a throaty gasp. James grabbed his steptwat by one shoulder and yanked him away from the road, onto the shadowed grass of the roadside verge.
Despite all the beer he must have drunk, Nigel was quick. James lashed out with the hammer again, aiming for the moonlit plate of Nigel’s forehead, but Nigel batted his arm away.
“What the FFFFFFFUCK do you think you’re doing?” Nigel yelled.
“Get him, James!” said Lefty.
Nigel stepped forwards but slipped on the grass, grabbing James’s puffer jacket sleeve as he fell. They tumbled towards the moon-dappled river, a shadowy laundrette-spin. James’s weapon-arm bounced against the ground. There was an impact and James lost his grip on the hammer.
Nigel, who had landed on top of James, howled into the night. He reared back onto his knees and the moonlight revealed his face. The hammer’s claw had lodged above one of his steptwat’s eyebrows and now dangled from his face like a wall hanging.
Above them on the road, a motorcycle buzzed by.
James’s steptwat’s forehead streamed black blood, and the eye not hidden by the protruding hammer kept batting in confusion.
“Don’t just lie there—kill the prick!” Lefty shouted.
“No James—run!” Righty said.
James shoved Nigel but his steptwat was sturdier than he looked. Nigel raised a hand towards the hammer, wincing with his one visible eye as he wrenched it from his skull. There was a gritty squelch and blood waterfalled from the wound, coating half his face. “You… ” he mumbled. “Youuuuuu… ”
James was paralysed.
Nigel appeared dazed as he raised the hammer and, one-handed, swung the claw-end downwards. James tried to roll sideways but his legs were pinned under Nigel’s knees. The hammer arced into the rear of James’s hand. Knuckles shattered. Skin split wide.
And James’s hand screamed.
James screamed too, as did both Lefty and Righty beneath his clothes.
Nigel seemed to regain his senses, frowning at the chorus coming from James’s body. Ignoring the pain, James rammed the back of his injured hand into Nigel’s face, pimp-smack-style. James felt a twinge of unfamiliar muscles as his hand clamped onto Nigel’s cheek. Nigel shrieked and wrenched his head backwards, yanking James’s arm as he went. The new mouth stayed attached to Nigel’s scrawny jowl.
Nigel grunted, raised the weapon, and hailed hammer blows into James’s chest, arms and sides. Wherever its claw broke through his jacket and skin, James saw the glitter of new teeth—some sharp, some jagged, some neat, some misshapen—and another voice joined the demented choir. Desperate to avoid further wounds, James did something he had never done before: he hugged his steptwat.
As they embraced, each mouth that had emerged across James’s body gnashed through Nigel’s clothes. All shouts—aside from Nigel’s—made way for the clacking of molars, the ripping and spitting of fabric and the wet tearing of flesh. Lefty chomped into Nigel’s still-swinging arm, holding it in place between its vile brown teeth. The hammer dropped to the grass and Nigel used his one free arm to punch and chop at James’s back.
Wracked with agony, James used his one unoccupied mouth—the one he had always owned—to bite Nigel’s throat. His steptwat tasted like bad aftershave and blood.
Even when Nigel had stopped fighting, James’s many mouths continued to chew and swallow. Between mouthfuls, they commented on a job well done, and debated the taste of the sinewy snack that James’s steptwat had become.
James walked home, a bleeding, gibbering wreck. The mouth in his head remained silent but the horde of fanged holes patchworking his torso argued and debated, discussed and bemoaned. He could barely follow his own feet, let alone discern which of the parroting lips made the strongest points. Now and again he heard a voice that reminded him of his father, or of teachers at school, or of the bullies that had plagued his lessons and lunchtimes.
He did not pass a soul, but when he arrived outside his home he saw that the curtains of his lounge were painted a faint green. His mother must have still been awake, perhaps worrying why Nigel hadn’t returned. James had hoped to just go to bed, either to peacefully bleed to death or to sleep until morning, when maybe the mouths would have closed, sealing the wounds they’d sprung from for good.
“Be quiet, now,” James said as he stepped through the door.
The mouths continued regardless.
James found his mother face down on the lounge floor, her face hidden by the fallen veil of her ridiculous hair. An orange halo of vomit circled her skull. His steptwat’s cheap white rum stood open on the table, empty.
The backup plan had been to spike his steptwat’s “night cap” rum with the paint thinner he had stolen. His mum must have finished her wine and taken some of Nigel’s rip-off Bacardi, maybe to calm her nerves as she awaited his late return.
“Oh, James,” Righty said. “If you need to cry… ”
“Shut the fuck up, you,” Lefty said. “Useless bitch deserved it, really.”
Some of the mouths offered sympathy.
Others said it was for the best.
A couple laughed.
James was surprised by how little he felt at the sight of the corpse, numb as he was to the pain that writhed beneath the heckling voices. Had it ever been about her?
He looked at the red footprints he had traipsed through the house, and the smears across the door handles and wall. He lifted his shirt. More mouths had opened across his chest and stomach, whispering and hissing and singing their opinions. Blood and foamy mucus ran from his ruptured flesh.
He pressed a finger against one mouth that had appeared beneath his navel. It had sharp, uneven white teeth, and kissed him with a moist smack. James pushed against its incisors. They opened, releasing a gobbet of black filth, and snapped through the large knuckle of James’s ring finger. He noticed dully that instead of leaving a bony stump, the wound revealed yet another mouth that nipped and whispered with miniature jaws no larger than a rat’s.
James laid his arms against his torso: mouths against skin, flesh against fangs. None spoke, but wherever the teeth gnawed into him more appeared, blood-streaked and voracious, until lips bordered lips without a trace of flesh between, only lightless voids hidden by dripping jaws.
The feast continued as James settled into his father’s armchair. It was a good chair, he thought, as he chewed through the fat of his own lips.
New mouths bred new mouths, spreading and biting into his chin, devouring the birthmark from his cheek and multiplying across his forehead and scalp. They chomped and swallowed and his skin vanished into a cold black nothingness before fading away entirely.
And the mouths ate their fill.
Jonathan Butcher lives and writes in Birmingham, UK.
From the day he was able to transcribe ideas onto paper, he has been writing strange stories. He hopes he never stops.
If you want to stay updated with his fiction writing, follow him here:
www.facebook.com/jonathanbutcherauthor
Let’s keep things weird.
I gazed through the glass out over the estate. It was still the same shithole it had been when I was growing up here. Nothing ever changed. People got older, people died, and others, like my wife, just seemed to live forever.
I could hear her singing in the living room; the drink had finally kicked home. I knew, without seeing her, that she would be dancing in front
of the little stereo system near the window. We had had it for years. I think it was a wedding gift from one of her asshole brothers, obviously nicked from a neighbour. I had one vinyl in all that time, ‘The Best of Madness’, but Doreen had thrown it at the cat one time and it had broken in two. I can remember every Christmas, opening the sock-shaped parcel and praying for a replacement. It never happened.
These days I spent all my time in the kitchen, looking out the window mostly and watching the world go by. Doreen would come in now and again when her bottle was empty and grab another. It was awful to watch someone you once loved kill themselves slowly with the drink. If I could, I would have stopped her, but I couldn’t. I could only watch. And those rare times that we actually got close, I could never find the words.
There was a knock at the door and Doreen killed the music. Her bare feet padded up the tiled hall and I could hear the clicking of the many locks as she opened them. Doreen trusted nobody.
It was a male voice. Selling something, most probably. Laughter, a few words exchanged and the slamming of the front door. Doreen walked into the kitchen. I adjusted myself and stared at her. She ignored me and went straight to the cupboard. The strains of Charlie Rich singing, ‘Behind Closed Doors’, burst into life.
That bloody song again.
The glass banged hard on the worktop beside me. I turned away. The vodka splashed all the way up to halfway and the dash of coke hardly coloured it at all. I felt some pity for her habit, but not that much. It would be better for both of us if she just choked to death on her own vomit one of these nights. The thing was, my wife just wasn’t that rock and roll.
I held my breath as she turned to stare at me. Her eyes were barely visible, sunken so deep into her troubled skull. She left the kitchen without speaking. I breathed a sigh of relief. At least I think I did.
It got dark pretty quick and the music still played from the living room. I guessed she had passed out on the couch. The record would play to finish, the needle would lift up and return home. Just one more song and then I could get some sleep. I changed position and looked back out over the estate. Darkness had fallen. The street lamps— or at least those that worked—came on. Hooded creatures lurked in the shadows, young ones with beer and glue, getting wasted and breaking into houses. It’s just how things worked around here. I closed my eyes and hoped Doreen would sleep through.
The postman woke me the next morning. The wave of bills and adverts fell upon the hallway carpet. I listened, could hear snoring from the living room. It was asleep, sound asleep. I looked at the little clock on the windowsill and it read 10.30am, Wednesday. It was Doreen’s signing on day. She would be gone for most of the morning. She didn’t drive and, since I was incapable these days, she had to take a bus from the estate and a taxi when she got to town. I didn’t envy the poor guy or girl who would take care of her at the dole office. Her breath in the morning was enough to cut through glass. I had until just after lunchtime to do what I wanted. I could relax in those few hours. I could tidy myself up a little without the constant fear of criticism on my appearance. I was what I was. Nothing could change that.
I closed my eyes as she entered the kitchen. She never spoke. I was glad. I knew by the amount she had downed last night that her head would be in pieces, and by the sounds coming from underneath her gown that she was moments away from shitting herself. She filled half a glass, drunk most of it, and then ran—or staggered quickly—to the stairs. It was one habit I could not abide. How could people use the toilet and not have the decency to lock or at least close the door behind them? I sat there and heard the whole thing, every splash, groan, and fart. It sounded like a slaughterhouse. I waited for the flush that never came. She was off to get ready and make herself presentable. I was tired. My eyelids fell heavy over my eyes and I tried to get some sleep. I made myself as comfortable as I could in a bed that was well overdue a change of sheets. I couldn’t do it myself, and Doreen had obviously forgotten about it. I had to make do with lying in my own mess and filth in a room that was far too small. Sometimes I thought of death and the comfort it would bring. I eventually fell into a deep slumber.
I was dreaming of gentle walks in the countryside with our old dog Ben—a collie type, all tan and black—when I felt something prodding me. The dream disappeared and I opened my eyes. Doreen was inches away from me with a stupid grin on her wrinkled face. The years were definitely not being kind to her. I was glad. At least, incapacitated like I was, it meant I wouldn’t have to endure watching her or hearing her with other men. All through our marriage, and most likely because I worked shifts at the factory, she had many affairs and one-night-stands all under my nose. I’m sure even our neighbours around the estate knew of her sexual exploits and had had a good laugh at my expense. If they could see me now I wonder would they laugh. Knowing the people of this estate, they probably would.
“Have you been sleeping all this time, you lazy fucker?” she said as she went about putting the groceries in the various cupboards, slamming each door in turn. I didn’t respond, just licked my lips and hoped she would leave as soon as possible.
“Well, while you were lying around on your fat arse all day, I have been busy. You remember busy, don’t you, George?” she said, smirking. Her last bag contained several bottles of wine. She lifted them out one by one, inspecting the labels as she did. Who was she kidding? She knew fuck all about wine. I have to admit I would have killed for even one sip of Chardonnay, but my drinking days were long gone.
Her stash was under the sink. For years she had used the place to hide her booze behind the various unopened bottles and sprays of cleaning materials.
She left one bottle on the kitchen table, took off her coat, and threw it out into the hall in the hope of reaching the bannister. It fell short and landed on the floor. I watched as she unscrewed the bottle of wine and tossed the top into the sink. She grabbed a fresh glass and filled it to the brim, took a sip and sat at the table. I had that sinking feeling in my ample belly that it was going to be a really long night.
“So, Georgie boy, as I was saying, I have been busy today. Don’t you want to know how I got on uptown? Shit, that reminds me, I picked up a few things for you as well. Aren’t I so good to you?” she said, sipping from the glass and plundering in her handbag.
She pulled out a few small bags. I adjusted myself. I had been too concerned with her comings and goings that I had forgotten about eating. I wasn’t able to eat on my own and I needed Doreen’s help for that. I actually felt a tinge of guilt about running her down so much. I was still alive. She fed me. She talked with me when I was feeling up to it. I suppose in her own strange way she still loved me.
She held the food between her nicotine-stained fingers, not far from my face, and it was my cue to open my mouth. She dropped it in and I swallowed as quick as I could. I wasn’t allowed cooked food anymore, and the stuff that had been recommended was tasteless and cold, but who was I to complain? Doreen kept feeding me with one hand and tipping her glass with the other. It was always a nice moment. I preferred the kind Doreen to the one that would surely make an appearance later on when the wine kicked in. I closed my mouth and blinked my eyes. It was my way of telling her that I was done. I had had my fill. I belched and she actually cracked a smile.
“Greedy big bastard, aren’t you, George? Now, I’ll let you digest that before I clean up your mess. In the meantime, I have to make myself presentable. Old Doreen has a date tonight.” With that, she went upstairs. I was hoping she would keep her promise of cleaning me up. I had been sitting in my own piss and shit for a few days now. I was beyond caring about my own cleanliness, but I’m sure she wouldn’t want her new boyfriend having to stick the smell. Although, usually when she had ‘friends’ over, she would shut the door and keep me out of sight. I would busy myself with life out on the estate while she busied herself in the bedroom upstairs. I would try my best to drown the sounds out, but she was loud when she was in the mood. Thankfully she hadn’t show
n any sexual interest in me lately. I wasn’t the man she had married. I was just an ugly, deformed creature, more a burden than anything else. I hated her for letting me live like this. I had nothing left to offer the world. I closed my eyes and tried to sleep off the mood.
There she stood in an old flowery dress, the one I had bought her one day in the city, back when things were different and money was really not a problem. “What you think, George, the old lady still got it?”
I tried to nod, but the way my neck and spine were these days, I couldn’t manage it. I blinked instead.
She looked at the clock and smiled. “Time for a wee drink before he arrives. Don’t worry, I’ll clean you up when I get back. Okay, Georgie?” She reached down and stroked my face. “Oh dear! Your skin’s all dried up. I’ll have to Google that and see what’s up. Remind me in the morning, but not too early,” she said with a wink.
A car horn blared outside in the street. She went to the window and waved, drank straight from the wine bottle, wiped her mouth and blew me a kiss. She was gone. I had peace. I actually hoped she would find me dead when she got back. A car engine revved as it sped off. I was alone.
A few hours passed and something woke me. A strange tickling sensation around the top of my head. I opened my sticky eyes. I saw a leg dangling down, trying to find its footing. I licked my lips. I knew who it was. It was the damned spider that had been torturing me for days now. Doreen was petrified by them. I didn’t mind them at all. I sat still and waited. He was mine this time.
His thin legs crawled all over my face, and still I waited. Further down he climbed until several of his legs actually rested on my closed mouth. I took a breath, opened wide, and with one gulp I took him in my mouth.
He wriggled and crawled around, trying desperately to escape. There was no escape, not this time. I let him suffer in the darkness, making up for the many nights he had spun webs upon me as I slept. When I finally got bored, I swallowed once and he was gone.
Trapped Within Page 6
