TEETH / 2018: chapter 1

This novel is extremely in-progress - the first few chapters are more polished, but eventually we'll hit my trademark messy/anything-goes drafting style.

CWs for this chapter: body horror, implied starvation/disordered eating.

The third house to take her is rented, not owned. It sits in the suburbs of Peterborough: grey, semi-detached, shrinking back from the road as if it would rather not take her at all. The foster family is sufficient. So is the house, and the clothes, and the trees. They give her food; she eats until her body swells. Chrissie looks in the mirror and does not recognise this stranger, this girl with meat on her bones. She does not sleep at night, just walks the house alone. There are bookshelves stuffed with unfamiliar titles; a Persian rug; parents who sleep through the night. There is so much to understand.

She empties her bladder, notes that the toilet needs cleaning, searches the cabinet for bleach. As soon as the door is tugged open, she is hit by a hot, dense wall of putrid must. Inches of beige plaster cower just beyond the door-frame - after that, all is enclosed by reams of pink-red flesh, impossibly deep, stretching down into the narrowing dark. The stench of it stings her eyes, makes her want to retch. Her heart is pounding, but she keeps her body still.

Eventually, she lifts a hand and sends it reaching in; a burst of warm air rushes out to meet her, steam condensing on her skin. She drops a knee onto the sill, graps out for balance. The flesh shudders, clenches, heaves as if to vomit at her touch. It's wet as well as warm; slime seeps through her jeans. Chrissie grimaces and continues reaching out, even as the muscles in her shoulder start to strain and her hand dips beyond view. Then, all of a sudden, there is another hand on hers - Chrissie grips it tight before it can withdraw. Their twin thumb-pulses strum against each other's skin. The stranger’s hand squeezes hers - nails dig into Chrissie’s palm. There is a sound like a choking sob.

Chrissie pulls her hand away.

She blinks, and all of it is gone. Nothing but cleaning supplies and folded towels. She scours every cupboard, every corner, every door - night after night after night, until her eyes are red and raw. The throat, however, refuses to appear.

---

A dirt track slices up a shallow hill in the nearby park. The grass has gone yellow in the sun: a thousand brittle strands, tossed and broken underfoot. It is one of many quiet days; they drop past one by one, like slabs of featureless stone. One step, and then the next. Bit by bit, Chrissie shakes her muscles loose. Today more than ever, she can feel the food and rest reshaping her. Her body moves different. Her teeth don’t feel right in her mouth.

She doesn’t notice the carcass until she steps in it. There is a second of resistance, then a squelch and a crunch as the ribs give way, then a dark mass of flies roaring up from underneath her foot. The beast is small: rabbit or squirrel or rat, too decayed to tell for sure. One glassy eye stares up into the sun, rimmed by peeling skin. The broken bones lie nestled round her foot. One by one, the flies begin to settle. A cloud begins to creep across the sun.

Chrissie peels back her foot from the red-but-greening mass. In one jerky motion, her hands scoop it from the ground, sending the flies into chaos once more. Too fast. Too rough. A tiny, brown organ ruptures against the tip of her index finger. Half-digested grass seeps through her hands.

She digs it a grave, scrabbling in the sun-burnt earth. By the time she gets back, the moon is high and bright. She rings the doorbell; they didn’t give her a key.

---

The foster mother gets all teary when the time comes for Chrissie to leave. She can’t imagine why. When asked for a hug at the doorway, she agrees and then stands limply in the older woman’s arms. They draw apart, and Chrissie sees the greying roots, the sallow jaw, the darkening skin under her eyes. She wonders, with a sickening jolt, if this woman has been losing sleep over her.

The social workers take her to the car, chattering happily about the traffic and the sunshine and the weeds. Chrissie nods without listening, pulling the seat-belt tight across her chest. The hand had been so soft. The girl in the throat (Chrissie is certain from the voice that it’s a girl) - would the rest of her feel that way too? If only she had searched harder. If only she had crawled into it when she had had the chance. The car pulls out of the drive. Chrissie’s head rests against the passenger seat window, stays there even as the car’s vibrations ripple through her skull. She is still but she is moving. She is here but she is gone.