An Acorns Flash Fiction Feature
By: Rye
The Hand that Bites
The leaves had only just started to turn. An awful viscera-red crawling up the struggling green with a terrible, earnest determination; that was when the teeth had started to grow out of my hand.
I’d noticed a subtle feeling of wrongness over a few weeks, a gnawing ache that radiated from my palm and through my fingers. Years of carrying burning plates from the kitchen had, I thought, killed all sensation in my palms, but this did feel different. Midway through an unremarkable shift, I ducked into a tiny alcove, predominantly to escape the sharp gaze of the managers who circled like vultures, but the effort was wasted. There was nothing there but a faint redness; a few inches of blushing skin stretched in a lazy crescent shape from the padded place beneath my thumb to the base of my little finger.
I finished my shift, the oddness with my hand pushed to the back of my mind as a group of eight barged through the doors, demanding the best table we had—only then to leave it ransacked after hours of loud, honking laughter and sporadic cheering. After two hours of unpaid overtime, I returned to my one-bedroomed cell, originally sold to me as a cosy flat, and passed out.
Days oozed past, each one the same as if I were stuck in some terrible TV show documenting the miserable life of the hospitality workers. Customers chatted inanely, celebrating the summer which refused to leave; blissfully unaware the planet was clearly dying as they ordered another ice cream sundae for their ugly, red-faced children. I kept my head down when I entered the roiling heat of the kitchen, where the underpaid cooks swore and snarled about the lack of air conditioning. I wove around the tables and chairs, dodging the wandering hands of bored men like some nightmarish obstacle course; only to fall asleep knowing the following day would bring the same.
“I told you I didn’t fucking want pickles!” A man shouted, and as I turned, a bun whipped past my face like a bloated breaded bird. It seemed everyone in the restaurant paused to watch as it splattered onto the wall, one half slid down the plaster and left a gory trail of ketchup and pus-yellow mustard. I turned back to the man. His cheeks were flushed, and his porcine eyes narrowed in anger. Yellow, crooked teeth glinted when his thin lips pulled back. I felt so still. I had stepped outside of my body to look at the depressing scene unfolding. At me, my crumpled uniform and dishevelled hair, at how easily an apology rose from my throat. From this perspective, I couldn’t see the anger which grew through my veins like barbed wire.
The restaurant slammed back into my senses with merciless force, and I swayed on my feet.
“I want another one, do you understand? And a fucking refund. Are you listening to me?” The man’s voice was grating, a petulant note heard in the toddlers who whined for dessert. His meaty fingers reached for my shoulder. I jerked away, my own burning, stinging hand rose to fend off the invader. Our skins touched, and he yelped. The man staggered back and grabbed the edge of the table to remain upright, his eyes wide. Blood, ketchup red, was smeared on his hand.
“I’ll go and get the kitchen working on your order right away and my manager will handle your refund, I am so sorry this has happened to you today.” The script was so light on my tongue, I wondered if I said the words in my sleep. I darted around the man and through to the kitchen, where I grabbed a wad of bandages. Instead of returning to the front, I slipped outside the fire exit and stood beside the large bins in the filthy courtyard. Only now, alone, did I unfurl my hand.
The red crescent was now vivid, a pure and pulsing shade of cherry-red. I watched as the skin writhed, and I felt it. I felt all of the nerves in my palm, as it squirmed. Then the redness opened, revealing two rows of glassy teeth bared in a mischievous grin. I quickly wrapped a length of bandage around my hand and was sure I felt the impossible teeth grind in frustration.
I returned to the flat, and my hand throbbed beneath the bandage. I could see the shadow of blood rise from the gauze. My kitchen felt even colder as I unwrapped the heated skin. Blood had dried into the cracks, dying my prophetic lifeline a vivid red. For a moment, I wondered if the teeth had been an illusion, some stress-provoked hallucination—but no. The second mouth opened, as if stretching after confinement, and again revealed two rows of pale, almost transparent teeth. The flesh surrounding the lipless maw felt raw and tender as if it had been gnawing on itself. I could feel it move, feel the shift of my flesh as it yawned and revealed glistening innards.
Sleep, surprisingly, came easily that night. I woke to see my hand resting on the other pillow, the mouth now on my palm was soft, as if it too slumbered. With a yawn, I walked into the bathroom and found I could shower without consequence; the teeth did not snap or nip at my skin. Instead, I was sure I felt the jagged edges caress my skin with the sweet gentleness of a parent.
A thunderous banging broke through the soft post-shower comfort. I walked with apprehension to the front door, the door which now seemed to tremble beneath the pounding fist on the other side. I exhaled slowly and opened the door to reveal Mason.
“You can’t do this!” The words were spat at me through lips I used to find alluring.
“Mason? What are you doing here?” I asked, keeping my new mouth behind my back.
“You don’t just get to leave, not after everything. Please, come on. I know you, I know us.” He said, and I felt something in my chest fracture. His anger tilted into passion, and his eyes burned. I let him pull me against his chest, let myself inhale the scents of sweat and sandalwood. His arms rose and held me tightly, and my resolve weakened. Our script rose in my mind, and like at the restaurant, it was one I knew in my sleep—the apologies, the promises that this time would be different. We’d find therapists we’d never go to, or download communication guides we’d never read. I’d apologise for my passive aggression, and he’d apologise for smashing my favourite mug. I knew my part. We drew back slightly, but I was close enough to see the amber flecks in his eye.
“I’m sorry,” he said, and he meant it. He always did. Now it was my turn to apologise, my lines waited, but something in me tightened. Why was I sorry? What had I done? Mason’s face was expectant.
“It’ll be different this time,” he added, giving me another cue.
“No,” I said softly, “it won’t. We aren’t good together Mase, we haven’t been for a long time. I think… I think we need to stay finished.”
“No, no you’re wrong. I’ll plan better dates, make more effort. You deserve it.” He said earnestly, and I swayed. My body ached for his warmth. A sharp pain flared through my palm and helped ground my resolve.
“Are you happy? Because I’m not.” I said, straightening my back, “We’re stuck in this cycle, and it has to end.”
He shook his head, and for a moment, I was reminded of the petulant man who threw his burger.
“Give us another chance, you can’t just walk away after everything!” he replied, his voice growing louder, “I won’t let you.” His lips tightened into an ugly line.
He reached for me, but I stumbled back.
“Leave, I want you to leave,” I said.
“No, we are going to fucking fix this!” he shouted. I became aware of his size, of the strength of his arms. Of the weakness of mine. He strode forward and closed the distance between us. My back hit the wall. My phone was in my bedroom.
“Mason, please. We can talk another time,” I said, trying to calm the anger I saw twisting his features into a different face.
“There is nothing to talk about. You aren’t leaving me.” He snarled and placed one hand beside my head. I felt so small. I could not find the man in this creature.
“Mason…”
“I won’t let you go,” he said softly, the oath echoed in the twitching muscle of his jaw.
“I believe you.” My lips were numb as my body slackened. I lifted my arm and placed my hand on his neck. I could taste salt and skin, and then I could taste blood.
About the Author:
Rye is an English writer who specialises in both poetry and short form fiction. They have been published internationally in online journals and literary magazines, including ‘The Pink Hydra’ and ‘Dusty Attic Publishing’ among others.