Between My Teeth

My brothers and I were cut from steel.

Shortly after our birth, the impurities were burned out of our skin, leaving us smooth and strong. We were forged and cooled, shaped and shaved. We were grafted and branded and placed in plastic cases.

The first day I met Maeve, she hated me. She held me in her manicured hands (blue and yellow, her school colors). She tore the wrapping paper from my case, and looked at me no longer than ten seconds before glaring at her parents.

“A knife?” she’d asked. Her dark red lips were twisted into a scowl. “Really?”

Her dad, who hadn’t known about me prior, shrugged.

“It’s a normal gift for graduations,” he said, but looked unsure.

Her mother, who’d chosen me as the gift and paid for me, had tears in her eyes.

“Do you not like it? It’s a nice brand, I use the set my parents gave me for my wedding to this day.”

Maeve’s face softened, noticing her mother’s worry. She placed me on her lap.

“No, it’s perfect.”

***

Maeve and I spent time together nearly every day. I helped her cook her meals, biting into vegetables and cuts of meat. The flavor would sink into my skin, acidic lemons and fishy salmon and sweet birthday cakes. I liked that Maeve fed me lots of different foods. I liked that she pressed my teeth into new tastes and textures. After I helped her, she would lather my body with soap and wipe away the grime with a kitchen sponge. Sometimes, she’d leave me in the sink for days, not washing me. Some of my skin began to spot; circles of brown instead of silver. But it was okay.

I could never be angry at my Maeve.

I was almost two years old when I first tasted human flesh. It was an accident, of course. Maeve had gotten a girlfriend and was trying to make her favorite dish: General Tso’s chicken. I bit through cloves of garlic and ginger root, the flavors strong and spicy on my tongue; my teeth sunk into the muscle of raw chicken thigh. Maeve had gotten new acrylic nails earlier that day, so her grip on my body was weaker, less confident. But she had never made a mistake like this before; I think both of us were surprised. She used me to scoop up the vegetables I’d chopped, but she ran the sharp edge of my teeth against her pinky finger. I tasted her blood against my tongue. She was metallic. She was like me.

I craved that flavor, salty and bold and full of iron. But I never wanted to hurt my Maeve. Never again.

When her girlfriend arrived, she wrapped Maeve’s finger with gauze and kissed her hand. Then her face. Then her neck. She could comfort Maeve in ways I never could.

***

It’s three months later when I taste blood again. The lights of the house are off. I can only see because of the green-blue lights of the microwave and the moonlight filtering in through the window. I see glass and blood on the floor. Maeve’s hold on my body is tighter than it has ever been before. She holds me backwards; normally, her thumb is closer to my teeth. This time, it’s near the end of my body. My teeth stick straight outwards from her body, and she pants, resting against the drywall column in the middle of her kitchen.

The sound of heavy footsteps on the hardwood floor begins. It’s loud, getting louder as it draws closer, and Maeve runs with me until she’s cornered by the pantry. She turns around, screaming. She shows me the man who was chasing her.

He’s tall and bulky, dressed in a ski mask and dark clothing. The gun in his hand had been crafted poorly; rough metal, blemished with imperfections and small bumps. It’s pliable. The gun is nothing compared to the steel I’m made of. I salivate at the sight of the man’s form, thinking of the amount of blood running through his large body.

Maeve grants my wish, letting me bite into the man’s chest.

My teeth tear through layers of muscle fibers, catching slightly as they graze the rough bone of his rib. I drink in the salted blood, savor the thready sinew, roll the spongy texture of his lung tissue along my tongue. He doesn’t take a long time to die, coughing up some of his blood onto my skin.

Maeve lets me feed off of him for a long while. She lets me taste him as the cops arrive and talk to her as she sobs. They wrap a blanket around her trembling shoulders and let her sit in the ambulance while they take pictures of her kitchen. They can comfort Maeve in a way I never could.

That’s the last time I see my Maeve. One of the police officers kidnaps me; she picks me up with a pair of tongs and places me in a plastic bag, to be stored and tested and suffocated. I don’t ever leave evidence storage after that, but at least my last meal was my best.

***

Elena Knudsen is a second year MFA candidate in ODU's Creative Writing program. She graduated UNC Chapel Hill with a double major in Creative Writing and Computer Science. She mainly writes fantasy, horror, and speculative fiction, and loves to combine genres and mess around with old tropes.