Such Sharp Teeth

by Rachel Harrison

It’s a particular form of torture that I wish I were alone in, though I know I’m not. For some reason I can never fully trust my own experience. I’m always treating myself like an unreliable witness. I offer no empathy, only an endless cycle of interrogation.

His eyes are fucking me up. Giving me high cholesterol.

Despite my best attempt to resist the thought, Ian is there. Does he want kids? Is there a life possible with him, a future? I doubt it. Because I’m a fucking werewolf.

“I can’t have a life with Ian,” I say, throwing my hands up. “I can’t. It’s not happening. So why don’t we change the subject to something more pleasant, like—I don’t know—the death penalty? Where do we land on that?”

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.

The werewolf thing only enhances all the parts of me that were already broken and wrong. It’s trapped me with the worst of myself. It’s my reckoning.

“You’re so beautiful,” he says as he kisses along my clavicle, one hand loose around my neck and the other moving up my thigh. “You’re so beautiful.” But I need him to love me ugly.

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.

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

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

“What song was playing?” he asks. “More Talking Heads?” “Actually, no,” I say, thinking back. “It was ‘Do You Realize??’ by the Flaming Lips.”

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. There is no me and the wolf. I am the wolf. This body is mine; it belongs to me. I’m here inside it, in control.

“You can’t free yourself of pain by causing pain. If you don’t take measures to control yourself, all you’ll do is cause pain. There’s no relief in destruction. I think you know that.”

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