Teeth

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Chapter 10 - Dirty

November 27th, 1991

Sarge woke me up in my bed by biting my ear, “I didn’t see you at the movies tonight,” he whispered through his perfect teeth close to my ear—sharp and low. He covered my mouth with his, held my head in the dent of the pillow with the pressure of his kiss. The only air I got was what he gave me. I couldn’t collect enough to make a sound.

I locked the doors and windows. I know I did. I remember.

He stripped my sweat-soaked cocoon away. He was already naked.

Sarge climbed on top of me, pulling my knees apart. He pinned my wrists with his, like I was a specimen on a bug board. The kiss was still pinning my head, and then he stopped.

He stopped kissing.

He pulled back, waited. I tried to catch my breath. My lungs pulled massive amounts of air from the room. When I finally captured enough to come to my senses, I opened my eyes. His teeth were white in the street-lamp lit room. I couldn’t turn my head to see the clock.

“Please stop,” I whispered into the dark.

“You always say what you don’t mean,” he whispered through his smile as he bent his serpentine spine and bit my nipple.

I screamed. Not nearly loud enough or strong enough, because he bit harder and didn’t stop, or maybe that’s what he wanted me to do. He stabbed into me. On the fifth plunge he released my nipple from his locked-jaw and returned to my mouth. I guess he was afraid my screaming was too loud. Maybe my neighbor would hear and call the police.

I tasted blood.

Gagging and grasping for something with my pinned hands, coming up empty every time, I could only smell blood and Old Spice. He was breathing for us again as he tried to finish and couldn’t. Eventually, he forced me to my stomach.

The pillow smelled like days of sweat.

He bent over to put his teeth near my ear.

“You are good,” he said the word as he began to fuck me, taking turns with the holes in my body while I screamed uselessly into the pillow.

I screamed. I know I screamed; because without missing a stroke of his pleasure, he grabbed the back of my hair, pulled my face up, and then buried my face deeper into the pillow, and held it there. He found a way to keep me quiet. I kept screaming, but I couldn’t hear it anymore, couldn’t catch a breath… to scream… anymore.

He pounded away, ripping and tearing through me.

“Please stop,” I spoke what I thought would be my last words to the suffocating fluff of my sweat-soaked pillow

Sarge lifted my face from the pillow. I sucked in all the air in the room and choked on it.

“I miss your long hair. It reminded me of a palomino horse’s tail. Why’d you cut it?” he snarled in my ear, bit and ripped my earlobe, and, because I screamed at the pain, he shoved my face back into the pillow.

He collapsed on top of me after his final stab. Still holding my dignity pinned to the mattress, Sarge let go of my head and wrists.

Fighting for breath, lying still and silent except for the involuntary air-sucking noise, I smelled his bloody, popcorn breath blowing on my shoulder and face as he complimented me, “You are good.” He kissed and bit my cheek as he rolled onto my husband’s pillow. He lounged with his legs across my body.

“I need sleep. I have to work tomorrow,” I coughed out the words quickly.

“No you don’t,” he said.

“What?”

“No you don’t. I asked Kelly where you were today. She said you weren’t scheduled ’til Sunday.”

“She what?”

“She said you were sick and not scheduled ’til Sunday.” He said the words as if he was talking to a child, slow and with a raised voice.

“You still have to go. I need to sleep.”

“So sleep,” Sarge said.

“You have to leave,” I explained again, trying not to panic, but failing miserably.

“I’m off ’til Monday.”

“Get out!” I screamed.

He smiled.

“Alright, I’ll go. Do you wanna go with me to the beach tomorrow?”

“I don’t feel very good. I’m sick,” just like Kelly confirmed for me.

“You’ll feel better tomorrow. Can’t have my best girl staying inside all day.”

His lips and teeth were red as he smiled. I turned away.

His legs swung off me, and I sank farther into the mattress as he stood up. Sarge walked to the foot of the bed and stopped.

I felt my feet rise and the mattress squeaked as it moved on either side of my feet. He bent over me. He’ll leave if I’m still.

Then the mattress on both sides of my knees gave under his weight. I started to roll over. Sarge put his hand on my head and buried me in the pillow.

This time there was no foreplay. He let me breathe every once in a while and I would watch the clock. Thirty minutes later, he still hadn’t finished.

“Don’t…that…feel…good...sugar” he grunted a word with each plunge. Tears soaked the pillow.

Time seemed to catch like a record skipping. The stabbing was the scratch. The music, my muffled scream. I felt the friction of every stroke ripping another whole part away from me. My mind separated from my body. I let him have it, but not me.

Sarge finally finished and fell on top of me. The needle lifted from the record, and the music stopped. But he stayed inside me.

“You wanna take a shower with me?” he said in his most come-hither tone as he bit my earlobe and reopened the wound.

“No. I want to sleep. I don’t feel good.”

“Yes you do…” he said as he thrust deeper into me again.

I whimpered as tears fell. He slithered out slowly and slid down to the foot of the bed again. This time he walked to my side, grabbed my hands, and pulled me up on wobbly legs.

He laughed.

“I’m good, too,” he smiled. Satisfied with his performance, he asked, “Do you want me to carry you?”

“No. I want you to leave so I can sleep… please.” I added the plea hoping that would be all it would take to get this southern gentleman out of my house.

“Aw now, don’t be that way. I want to give you a bath and pamper my girl.”

“I can handle it without you.”

“But that’s no fun,” he smiled, grabbed my hand and lead me limping to the bathroom.

Sarge started the water in the bath.

“Where’s your towels?”

“In the hall closet.”

He walked out.

Just move Lilian. Close the door and lock it. You’ll be safe. I tried to move towards the door, but the waves of fear covered my feet in sand. Sarge was back with towels before I could wiggle them free.

“Get in,” Sarge said as he grabbed the soap and shampoo. I stepped into the water and pulled air through my teeth.

“Cold baths are better. It calms you down,” he explained as he pressed on my shoulders to sit down. The temperature shocked, but it did feel good on my torn skin.

“Lay back and get your hair wet,” he said.

I immediately did as he instructed and laid back in the now red water, and I closed my eyes to keep the water out. A soapy claw clenched my breast and stung the opened wound. The intake of breath at the pain saved me as Sarge pushed on my neck and forced my mouth under water. I struggled, and he let go.

“Why’d you… do that?” I sputtered.

“I was just gettin’ your bangs wet.”

He climbed into the tub with me, slid down behind me, poured shampoo in his hand, and began sudsing my hair.

“I miss your long hair,” his mouth was close to my ear as the strawberry scented soap ran over the earlobe and burned. Sarge went from washing my hair to rubbing my breasts and stinging nipples. Even in the cold water, his sharp incisor was sticking in my back. The soap oozed into my eyes. I pled my case.

“I’ve got soap in my eye.”

“Rinse it out,” he said.

“I need some fresh water.”

Grabbing my shoulders, he said, “Here, let me help.” He pushed me down into the water. I had time to catch a breath before he dunked me. My hands found his, and I tried to pry them away. After a few seconds, he pulled me out of the water by my hair.

“I thought you said you needed to wash the soap out. What’re you floppin’ around like a fish for?” he asked. “Is the soap out?”

No. “Yes,” I replied after gasping and choking.

Sarge grabbed some more soap and started rubbing his hands together again—sudsing. Sarge totured my breasts again. Then he grabbed me under my arms and lifted me onto his lap.

“Time for a good scrubbin’,” he growled behind me. Half gone already, the water drained as he wrapped his arms around me and bit my back and shoulders. I was glad the water was almost gone. Drowning is a horrible way to die. I felt the sting as his soapy hands slid under me and between my legs. When he pulled his hand back out, it was covered in blood-pink soap. Pure radiation couldn’t burn as much. I yelped and tried to jump in the leftover water. He rinsed his hand as he held me out of the water, keeping me from any relief.

“Sorry sugar, but I know you’re going to feel good in a second,” he said.

The water was almost gone. Sarge held me against him as he flipped me face down in the tub. My hands were free to hold my face up from the edge of the tub, and I tried to crawl out. I got halfway.

“Where are you goin’ sugar?” he asked.

He pulled me back onto his soapy dagger, and it stabbed me again. Stinging fire filled my insides. He took turns again with the holes in my body, to make sure neither felt neglected.

“How’s…that…sugar?...Better…ain’t it…sugar?”

The record skipped. The music played, but never changed.

Sarge finished. I begged him for water.

“Sure thing,” Sarge said as he turned on the water. I sat in the tub trying to wash the burn away while Sarge rinsed his face, mouth and hair. Streams of blood ran.

“Come on. Let’s get to bed. You need some sleep,” he said.

“You have to go now,” I said. “What if the neighbors see you?”

“Nobody will see,” he smiled. His teeth were sharp white again. “We’ll leave for the beach before anyone wakes up.”

“I told you. I’m not feeling well. I’m sick.”

“The beach will make you feel better. Go get in bed. Get some rest.”

I crept to the bedroom keeping my thighs as far apart as I could. He walked behind me, holding my shoulders.

“The sheets are dirty. Where are your sheets?” he asked.

“In the hall closet.”

He got another set and threw them at my feet.

“Make the bed,” he said.

I bent over slowly to pick up the sheets.

He laughed, “Nice. You are good.”

I peeled back the covers, replaced the sheets and pillow cases, and put the sweaty down comforter back on the bed. I climbed in. He followed. He climbed over me, wrapped his leg over mine, and pulled me back against his chest. My head rested on his right arm. He held my arms crossed in place against my torso. I felt my hair move with his slowing breath.

He formed my own personal shark cage.

His breath slowed, but his hold didn’t weaken. When he loosened his grip, I’d run somewhere, anywhere.

“What are you thinkin’?”

“Nothing,” I replied.

“Oh, you’re thinkin’ somethin’.”

“I miss my husband.”

“Well sugar, I can fix that.”

“Not that way.”

“What other way is there?”

“Never mind. I need sleep.”

“Sure, you get some sleep, and we’ll go to the beach tomorrow.”

As I laid there waiting for him to fall asleep, my eyelids began to work like worn-out, pull-down shades. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t keep them open.

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