Such Sharp Teeth

by Rachel Harrison

Mist curls in all directions; it peels from the night like the skin from ripe fruit.

Maybe it’s the blood loss, or it could be the profound devastation over having had this done to me, having been vandalized in this way. The carelessness, the disregard for my body, for my life.

I can’t freak out because she’s freaking out. One of us has to be calm. It’s a rule.

Bad things have a way of severing your life into “before” and “after.” It’s really annoying.

Denial is hard to sustain. It requires constant effort. The truth might not be pleasant, or logical in this case, but it’s easy. I don’t need to assign myself to it. It just is.

but suddenly there were stories. I was horrified by the stories, by how we all had them, every one of us. Compared to what some of them had endured, to what Mia had endured, what I’d gone through wasn’t even that bad. That’s what I told myself. It wasn’t that bad. It was another excuse to not give myself permission to be upset. To dismiss it.

When you’re sad, you cry. When you’re happy, you smile, you laugh. But what do you do when you’re angry? Not just mad, but filled with this ugly, consuming rage? And the thing is, women aren’t allowed to be angry. Nobody likes a mad woman. They’re crazy, irrational, obnoxious, shrill.

What kills me is this isn’t for me. The conversation she’s begging me for isn’t for my benefit; it’s for hers. She wants to be absolved of all guilt without admitting any wrongdoing. What I want is for her to apologize and take responsibility. I’m not going to get what I want. I know this. So any conversation would only exacerbate my anger.

The rest of the drive is just her sobbing into the passenger-side window. Maybe she is genuinely sad, but I’m willing to bet this is just a tactic to get me to relent and give her what she wants.

“That’s not the point! You’re missing the point. You badger me to talk about it, and then when I do, you don’t listen to anything I say. You don’t want to hear what I’m saying.”

I’m imagining what it would feel like to make her stop. To make her stop talking. Stop crying. Stop moving. To just stop. I could. Easily. The violence is there, always there, waiting for me.

“It’s too hard for her. She couldn’t live with it.” “I have to live with it,” I say.

“What the fuck?” she yells. “What the fucking fuck? What? What? What the fuck? Are you, what? Fuck!” I nod. “Tell me about it.”

The rage wraps itself around me like vines, like moss swallowing a rock. It’s a natural state. It’s good. It’s symbiotic.

“If something’s bothering me, I just shut down. Get quiet. I don’t yell. It can be frustrating for people close to me.” “That you’re quiet?” “Yeah,” he says. “That when I’m feeling some type of way, I disconnect. Sometimes I wish I could yell. Have that external release. Get out whatever’s going on in my head.”

“You’re so beautiful.” But I need him to love me ugly.

I can’t undo what’s been done, but I can try to figure out a way to live with it. To harness it. Find some control.

There’s no winning. The trauma is either your fault or it’s a gift. It’s either You should have done this to stop it or Look what good has come of it! If you don’t get over it, why can’t you get over it? Why can’t you get past it or learn how to cope? Or if you do find some way to move on with your life in a socially acceptable manner, then you’re so brave and so strong, and aren’t you amazing? Let’s applaud you for moving forward while there’s a knife at your back.

Mom’s absence simplifies our dynamic. The next day, with nothing to do and nowhere to go, we spend 99 percent of our time on the couch, reading and working and watching TV, getting up only for food and bathroom breaks.

This is the truth. The truth of me. What if I can’t control myself in this form because this is what I really am? What if this is what I really want? Power and violence and freedom and oblivion.

It does have good reviews on Yelp. And where do I get off being skeptical? I’m a fucking werewolf.

Their eyes are on me. There’s a sensation in my chest, like a harsh wind, like a cold front, like a light being snuffed out. A freezing. A calcification. Then nothing at all.

This grin suggests he’s ignorant of danger. Suggests he assumes he is stronger. Assumes he is safe. I wonder what that’s like, to assume safety.

Seems like too much effort to remove it. So I don’t. I don’t care. I don’t care about anything anymore. Anything or anyone. I tried. I’m done.

I could destroy him. I want to. I want accountability. For once, some goddamn accountability. But where would that leave me? What would it solve? I can’t repair damage by causing more damage. I can’t do anything.

There was this other life I had in my head—this fantasy life that I didn’t even realize I wanted until the possibility of it was gone.

I don’t understand how it’s possible to live with your heart in someone else’s hands. To have the capacity to forgive them if they break it.

I just don’t want you missing out on something special because you’re scared.” “I’m not scared, Scarlett. I’m a monster. I scare. I don’t get scared,”

I suffer the sunset, the abandonment of daylight. I suffer the tenacity of the stars, the moon’s cagey accomplices. And, of course, the moon herself. Slim and tinny. I run in circles under her brutal eye, feeling the lunar cycle in my muscles, in my marrow. A tension waxing and waning.

Once I stopped thinking about what my life wasn’t going to be, I started to see what it could be.

It isn’t fair that I have to live with this, but I have to live. I’m resilient. My strength doesn’t come from the bad things that have happened to me. It defies those things. It’ll be all right. No matter what, I’ll be all right.

I’m going to maintain my composure. I’m going to resolve this calmly and maturely and then move on with my life as a charismatic lady/terrifying beast.