A Heart Full of Teeth

A short horror story about love and monsters of our own making

Mashup of photos by Heather Green via Unsplash and happymillerman via Flickr

The swan creaks as we step aboard.

My man’s a bit heavy, you see. I made him that way.

Sturdy, broad-shouldered, barrel-chested. The type of man that could pick you up in his arms and swing you around. The type of man that could carry you across the threshold like you see in the movies.

The carny at the front of the line gives us a peculiar look, but I pretend not to notice. And anyway, what’s there to look at? My man’s not that different from the farmers in these parts. Quiet, faraway eyes. Knotted muscles under rough skin. More brawn than brain.

Really, in this light, nobody can even tell the difference.

Truth is, I always pictured myself with someone refined. Someone with culture and grace. Of course, those are always in short supply around here. Not that what I came up with is much better. But at least he’s mine. And best of all, I don’t need to explain myself. Or put on an act. Don’t have to bend myself to his will. Don’t have to break myself to fit a farmer's wife’s mold.

And I love him because of it.

My man.

There’ve been others. Others I thought I loved when I thought love meant dark rooms and rough touches and attention thrown my way like bones. I knew I was never going to be the girl they took home to their mamas. Never was going to be the girl that made their daddies proud.

I was a secret, strange, and shameful thing.

A broken toy they just couldn’t throw away.

Strange but seductive in the way the odd and unknowable often are.

And maybe I can’t blame them for thinking of me that way.

I am a little crazy.

Or so they tell me.

It took me a few years too long to understand that on a good day all I could hope for from that type of love was apathy.

And on a bad day?

Well.

Let’s just say I learned exactly what it took to snuff out the soul’s blaze. I saw it go out.

Every night in the mirror.

But in the end, it proved to be a valuable lesson, didn’t it?

Isn’t that funny? The way broken things learn to mend. How they find all the pieces and put them back together again.

One way.

Or another.

Tonight’s a night for celebrating all that. A night out in tribute to the love we’ve made. It’s just a little treat. A bit of an indulgence. And I have to smile, even if the darkness that’s coming wasn’t exactly part of my plan.

We settle our bodies onto the swanboat’s bench, my man and me. And we drift forward toward the heart-shaped entrance of Cupid’s Cruise, fairy lights winking overhead on rusty wires. Just ahead, a plywood cherub winks at us from behind silk flower petals, the pink paint of his little wings chipped and peeling.

I grasp my man’s hand a little tighter. His skin is cold, so I curl his fingers around mine, savoring the feel of each carefully crafted digit.

Only I would know where to look for the seams.

Like I said, broken things learn to mend. And this broken thing? Well, I told you, didn’t I, just how much I understand about stealing away the light from someone’s eyes? And it occurred to me, odd as it sounds, that giving it back might be just a simple matter of applying the opposite principle.

So with my man, I was slow and careful. Tender and kind. I spoke lovingly to each bit and piece as I worked, weaving my words into the flesh, singing sweet songs into the blood of him.

I sigh now at the memory and lean my head against his shoulder. We sail on into the next little room. This one’s made up like a museum. All the paintings in it show beautiful goddesses and handsome heroes making eyes at each other. Or men in white wigs and big-buckled shoes passionately embracing ladies in fancy cleavage-baring dresses.

My man grunts a little at the sight of all the skin on display, even if it’s just a bit of oil on canvas. And you’d be fooled into thinking he’s got the same wants and needs as any man.

Wants and needs. Now those are sticky things.

Thoughts and ideas are one thing. Easy to massage into place; hardly a moment’s work to whisper into the folds of grey, a bit of nothing to caress them into place with soft, sure fingers.

But the brain is for reasoning, concepts, morality, and judgement. And all that’s just surface stuff. Something like a mask we put on to pretend at being civilized.

It’s the heart that’s the thing. The center of it all. The true animating force.

And I’m afraid that’s where I made my mistake.

Because my man’s heart has teeth.

Our swan glides on, the murky water threatening to slip over the white-painted sides when my man shifts positions. He leans forward, suddenly expectant as we enter the next room.

This one is draped in cheap red fabric, each fold caked in a layer of dust. A lazy scattering of crimson confetti falls from the ceiling, swathing giant sculptures of pink and gold hearts in a dusting of red.

The room is large compared to the others, accommodating a long bend in the little river. From here, we can see two swans ahead of us and four swans behind, each one filled with a couple in various states of coupling.

Twelve lovers loving. A veritable feast.

Now this is the hard part. The part I dread.

But it’s worth it, of course. I’d endure anything for my man. Make any exception. It’s not his fault, really. I didn’t mean to make him this way, you understand. I thought I did it right. All that tenderness I wove into his marrow, all that sweetness I spoke into his sinews.

But the heart? Well. Broken things mend. But maybe sometimes they don’t get put together right. And when I made my man, I made him to blunt the sharpness of my longing, to fill the emptiness in my heart. And I thought I did it right.

But it seems I only made his own heart jagged and hungry.

The swan rocks back and forth as a tinny torch song plays over ancient speakers. I slip my hands from his. Put one over his chest. I can feel it, just below the ribs and cartilage. A slow beat, building first to a purr, then a growl.

I look to my man’s mouth. He’s salivating. My gaze slides up his face to his eyes. The eyes I set so carefully in those deep sockets. The delicate veins there bulge around dilated pupils.

It’s time.

I let my hands drop, and he stands, setting the swan swaying. His heavy feet drop into the water, and he wades past the couples in the swans in front of us before stepping out of the water to the platform. One easy shove, and he’s pushed one of the giant hearts into the water, blocking the forward flow of the river.

The couple cries out first in surprise and then in anger, but my man pays them no mind. He’s already striding to the opposite side of the room, tearing another heart-shaped fixture down and throwing it into the water to block the path behind us.

There’s nowhere to run now.

I curl up on the bench, raise my knees to my chest, put my hands over my ears. But the screams still find me, the crunch of bones, and the tearing of flesh, so I start to hum that old torch song about a man I love and a house built for two.

Through my lowered lashes, I watch as the river runs red.

Finally, after it’s all over and the room grows quiet, a shadow falls over me. I take my hands from my ears, tilt my face up. My man stares down, confetti drifting around him like scarlet snow. His mouth is painted in blood, smeared with gore.

He lifts me from the swan, cradles me in his arms. I feel the thrum of his heartbeat echoing in my chest. Two fragile pulses locked in weird syncopation. Tortured harmony.

And then he kisses me, his cold lips slick against my own, the taste of iron on my tongue.

You know, I love him.

My man.

I love him.

My monster.

I love him.

And his heart full of teeth.

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Looking for more tales fresh from the witch’s oven? Check out my other dark fantasy and horror stories here, including the contest winner, The Echo of Gods.

Or maybe you’re in the mood for something a little longer? My serialized novel, Dark as Dawn, Bright as Night, is a literary fantasy with elements of horror, and you can find all the episodes here!

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