Such Sharp Teeth

by Rachel Harrison

My car is facing in the wrong direction. I inhale, and it’s just burning rubber. I hit something. I hit something.

Fuck you, moon. I don’t need my death by large inbred animal to have good lighting. Dark would be fine. Preferable.

“I was coming home from the bar and I hit something. I worried it was a dog. Some sweet golden retriever wearing a red bandanna and, like, a collar with tags that say, ‘I’m loved.’

I don’t know how I could invent pain like that, how I could conjure that type of suffering, those specific, unfamiliar sensations. But I don’t have any evidence. Nothing to prove what I really went through or how it felt. Nothing visible, nothing tangible. I can feel it. The damage is there, but it’s ghost damage, haunting my body like it’s a goddamn Victorian manor. No one can see it but me. No one knows it’s there except for me.

My hair turns out stupidly good. Maybe the magic product I’ve been missing all these years is distress?

None of those fantasy nerds covered this on the forums.

Luca comes scooting into the room atop a tiny fire truck. He presses a button and a musical alarm sounds. “Beep beep!” he screams. “Beep! Beeeeeep!” He runs over my toe, looking me right in the eye as he does it. Frankly, I admire his fortitude.

I know now how rare it is to have these fun and easy conversations. To understand someone and be understood. But understanding someone and accepting them are two different things. One doesn’t guarantee the other.

My eyes close, and it’s here. The transcendent knowledge that nothing can touch me. That I’m not in danger, because I am danger.

Just when I start to relax, the front door opens, and in walks Matty’s mother, Joann. All my orifices cinch simultaneously.

Lmfao please

“Who was the werewolf?” she asks after a while. “What do you mean?” “Who bit you?” “Wish I knew,” I say. “Would quite like to have a word.”

This book has me laughing the entire time

I voluntarily watch about half an hour of local news. That’s how I know I’m depressed. Mom and Scarlett have been gone awhile. It’s clear they’re avoiding me, each for different but perhaps equally valid reasons. If I could avoid me, I would.

Local news and sitting in the shower. I feel like I’m playing depression bingo.

I think she’s trying to tell me that I should be grateful for my trauma because it’s somehow positively contributed to my personal development. 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.

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

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.

“You look exceptional.” I check the mirror. She’s not wrong. “You’d never guess I occasionally kill and consume whole deer.” “What?”

“If you see a future with him, and I know you do, you need to tell him. I don’t know how he’ll react, but I know he loves you. He’s always loved you. Which is strange, because I was right there, identical and with a much better personality.” “Room for argument there, but thanks. Very reassuring.”

A sound reigns over the night. This time, it comes from me. It’s all of me. All my rage, all my pain, all my strength, all my love. When I howl, I howl with everything I am, every fiber of me, in every form, every phase. Past, present, future.

“Can I kiss you?” he asks. “Just be careful,” I whisper. “I have such sharp teeth.” He kisses me anyway. Not careful. Not afraid. I kiss him back. Not afraid.