Truth be told, I want to hurt. I like the idea of hurting. Of suffering. Of retribution. It’s my cross to bear. I should carry it with a smile.
But God, that smile. The one in the mirror. That gaping gash of a grin. Blood-tipped canines and gore-caked molars. Evidence of violence; evidence of depravity — all exposed in a smile of the purest, truest joy.
“Do you remember how she tasted?” my teeth ask. “Do you remember the texture and consistency? The chew?”
I do my best to ignore them, but they bite my tongue. I taste blood. Again.
“Stop,” I demand. “I can’t.”
My tongue, wounded, chimes in. Its voice is wet and heavy. “She tasted sour. And sharp, depending on the parts. But unique. Unique Monique.”
