Aired Teeth
James Perkins
The prisoner sat with the
skeleton, chained and
fettered at both their ankles. Rarely could he see its bones anymore. The light
was little and his eyes had grown dull in its absence. On summer days, or at
least what he assumed to be summer, he could make glimpses of its arid teeth
cemented in a perpetual grin. It smiled at him, and looked at him with sunken
holes, but never spoke.
The desolate and derelict
cube of brick and
moss around them had been their residence for years now. Its freezer-like
interior of cold walls and frigid floors unnoticeable on account of the length
they’d come to endure it. The only light came through a slit high above the
floor, like the eye of God peering in, curious of what became of his most
forgotten subjects. The prisoner much preferred his darkness, escapism was a
drug best served without reality in the way of his eyes.
Twice a day the banging
and clattering of their
meals could be heard as they were dispensed from the chute built into the
ceiling.
What he ate was indiscernible,
flavor fatigue
had dulled his pallet, and he could never see what it was he so willingly put
in his body. The skeleton didn’t complain, even though his rations were always
lesser. What he did with his the prisoner did not know.
As the clattering and banging
of that
particular day’s meal began, the prisoner crawled to the drop zone, a damp
patch of ground where the food they missed in the dark was left to mold or
crust along the floor's surface. He towed the skeleton with him, the scraping
of bone on concrete like the screeching of sirens reverberated off their shared
walls, bouncing off every inch before returning in the center with piercing
high notes.
Its skull and ribs sharpened
as they grinded
across the floor today as they did the day before and would the day after.
On this particular day though,
unlike any day
prior, the food had not dropped.
The prisoner waited and
waited, for how long he
was unsure, but he knew it to be longer than it should've been. His fingers dug
anxiously into his flesh, his nails puncturing the skin of his arms. He shifted
his balance anxiously, as his mind turned and whirred in a flurry of ideas.
Where had his food gone? Had someone taken it? Did whoever or whatever gives it
forget? Were they dead? Had they wanted him dead?
His breathing grew heavy
as the heat from his
body warmed the room. He turned. and saw the grim smile of the skeleton,
partially illuminated by the slit. It looked at him in a mocking fashion, as
though it were responsible.
“It was you! You’ve
taken the food! You've
always been jealous! Spiteful from the food you never rightly deserved!” he
shouted in accusation towards the bones.
Its mouth did not move in
defense of itself. It
gave no rebuttal, merely grinned as it always did.
The prisoner looked to a
loose brick in the
framework of their cell, and with the full extent of his might pulled it from
its socket. He looked once more at his cellmate, the wicked grin of aired teeth
driving him to a manic disposition; an inherent rage of which the bones were
sole heir too. He lurched his arm forward, and drove the brick through its wall
of incisors, before pulling back, and doing so again, and again. A senseless
repetition of destruction until its sunken eyes and wicked grin were nothing
but powder.
The prisoner stepped back,
breathing heavily,
his teeth bared and sharpness in his eyes. He looked at the dust under the
brick where once was the head of his only friend turned traitor, and as he did
so, a clanging and banging began again, and food fell to the floor.
It
was the same as any other day, the food
came, but unlike other days before it, as he bit into it, he cried. He cried
because from now on he would only ever eat alone. His only friend slain for a
crime he didn't commit, and no prayer nor function could undust him.
