feeding frenzy
Josie hesitated in front of her reflection. She’d just finished brushing her teeth, about to turn away from the mirror and
wipe her face, when she halted to take herself in.
What was that?
Did she really see what she think she just saw? Her reflection moved a breath behind her, lagging by just a fraction of a
second, almost dragging itself behind her real self.
Behind her.
Impossible. Stuff like that just doesn’t happen. Josie must be tired. Work has been getting to her lately, all those extra
hours at the bar. She’s simply seeing things.
There’s a bit of toothpaste at the corner of her lips, dribbling down her chin. She should wipe her face. Go to bed. Pass
out. Sleep the sleep of ten people and—
Josie smiles at herself. Correction: Her reflection does. Not Josie.
Not Josie at all.
Josie’s never grinned like that before in her life. Chin dipped to her chest. Eyes bearing down. A spume of toothpaste dripping,
dripping, dripping off her chin.
Hold on. That’s not toothpaste. It’s . . . drool.
Josie steps back from herself—from her own reflection in the bathroom mirror—a full stride away from the sink, toothbrush clattering across its basin. Her breath catches in her chest, throat clenched, gasping at the same time, so it all makes some garbled choke.
She knows she made a sound. So why hasn’t her reflection followed? Why doesn’t the mirror image of herself replicate her startled
expression—wide open eyes, dropped jaw, flushed cheeks?
Why does the Josie in the mirror keep smiling back at her, never once blinking?
My turn, Josie says.
But which one?
“Did you say something?” Lucas asks.
But Natasha is already out cold. Her body has slackened against the mattress, absorbed into some amorphous shape within the
shadows. He can hear the faint purl of her breath.
Natasha’s snores are so damn endearing. A babbling brook. There are those nights when Lucas will simply listen to her sleep,
feeling at peace with the gentle catch of her breath.
He nestles up behind her, assuming the spooning position, like every other time, settling in for a night of listening to Natasha
sleep, eventually drifting off himself.
So whose breath is spreading down the back of his neck?
Don’t mind me.
Mom keeps repeating the same word. She’s fumbled over the same sentence a couple times now. Kimmie doesn’t know if she should
say anything about it. Make her mad.
Mom’s just tired. This happens at bedtime, sometimes. She’ll tuck Kimmie in, crack open a picture book, start reading, but
the deeper into the story she goes, Mom will start to drift. Kimmie’s caught her mother with her eyes closed, dozing between
sentences.
“Wake up,” she’ll say, prodding her mom with her elbow. “You fell asleep.”
“Sorry,” Mom will always say, doubling back a couple pages. “Where was I?”
Tonight feels different, though. Mom feels different. Her words are slurred. She’s mumbling things that don’t feel like they’re a part of the story. Awful things.
Scary things.
In this story, little girls get eaten. By their mommies.
There’s nowhere Kimmie can go but under the covers, slipping deeper into the crawlspace between her blanket and bed, hiding
in that dark pocket. Her mother is still sitting next to her, just on the other side of the bedspread, her rump pinning the
blanket against the mattress.
Mom’s still telling her bedtime story. Not reading it. Those words are definitely not coming from the book in her hand, not
anymore. No, these are new words now. A whole new story.
And then she cracked open the little girl’s femur and slurped the fresh marrow, the succulent butter within the bone, so yummy
in mummy’s tummy . . .
Kimmie presses her palms against her ears, hoping to block the story from creeping in, but even then, she can hear the vague
whisper of the words seep through the sheets.
So yummy in mummy’s tummy, so yummy in mummy’s tummy, so yummy . . .
Get them out, Craig thinks. He has to force the voices back, even to muster that much. Get them out of my head. Please. Make them stop make them stop make them . . .
There’s just been too much. The migraines have grown into a downright din in his skull. All speaking at once. He can’t concentrate.
Can’t think. Can’t live like this.
He’s always been prone to headaches, but today’s is by far the worst. Like an ice pick between his eyes, directly through
the temples.
They are words. Words like worms whittle into his skin, burrowing into his brain. They are sinking as deep into the soft tissue
as they can, all of them saying the same thing:
Mine now mine now you’re all mine . . .
Craig’s practically chewed through a whole bottle of Tylenol. Still nothing. The pain won’t go away. The voices haven’t stopped.
If anything, they’ve only gotten louder. Clearer.
Mine now. You’re all mine. Mine, mine, mine . . .
He could go to the doctor, but what would that do? He needs help now. Needs to get the voices out of his head now. Release the pressure, somehow. Stop the pain before—
Mine, mine, mine!
The drill. There’s a battery-powered drill charging in the workroom. Of course. Why didn’t he think of it before?
Mine mine mine mine mine mine mine mine mine mine mine—
The drill bit is cold against his temple, the metal pressed against his skin. The chill sends a jolt of relief through the
muscles in his neck, that infinitesimal bit of external pressure already providing just the slightest release. A minor distraction
from the pain.
—minemineminemineminemineminemineminemine—
Just think how he’ll feel when he finally gets these voices out of his head.
—minemineminemineminemineminemineminemine—
Just think how much of a relief it’ll be to release the pain building up in his temples.
—minemineminemineMINEMINEMINEMINE—
Just think—
“Open wide,” Doctor Perkins says. He brought all his shiny new toys to play with. See how the prickly implements glimmer under
the glaring lights.
“Wider now,” he insists. “Say aaaaaaaaah . . .”
All day, Dr. Perkins works within the mouths of men and women. The dull repetition of it has fatigued him to the point where
he hardly sees their teeth anymore, all of them blurring together in an endless stream of pearly whites.
He leans into the open chasm of his patient, too bored to even remember his name, poring over that hollow grotto. So pink. So wet. A faint bouquet of bad breath drifts up. Dr. Perkins takes the aroma into his lungs. Holds it.
There is a spotlight directly over his head. The pearly stage is set. This man’s yellowed teeth gleam under the harsh light.
His tongue lags, curling to one side, as if it’s unsure where it’s supposed to go.
What a lovely patch to play in with all his toys. “Hold still.” Dr. Perkins scrapes the residual buildup of plaque along his
incisors. The metal pick in his hand pings with each scrape, sending the tenderest vibrations through his fingers. He loves
the feel of it, the resonance of teeth, his instrument plucking at the gums. Perhaps he’ll stay here all day, working away,
patient after patient after patient.
“Aaw,” the man onstage moans. His lips are unable to seal, his mouth obstructed by Dr. Perkins’s gloved fingers, sheathed in latex,
the words unraveling into loose sounds.
Such wet sounds.
We lean back to take in our work thus far, retracting our hands. We see that he’s bleeding. Our patient’s lower lip is a brilliant
red. Now it spreads, dribbling down his chin.
Oopsie. Did we do that? “Have you been flossing?”
Something has called upon them. Summoned them all.
A lighthouse to guide them. A voice to draw them in.
What adorable morsel is this?
Jordan. Sweet Jordan . . .