Jagged Edges

She sat on the bed and watched. She watched them through a narrow chink in the wall. The boy had his arm around the girl. He was whispering something into her ear. The girl giggled and covered her mouth. He moved closer. She pushed him away. He tried again. She refused him again. He stopped smiling. She stopped smiling as well. They stared at each other. She began to sweat. Dinner! the girl’s mother cried. Coming! she responded. She strained to see what would happen next. The boy stood up. He was holding something in his hand. She couldn’t see what it was. It looked like a straight razor. Perhaps he was going to shave? Her heart was beating fast as she watched. She knew she shouldn’t be watching. It was none of her business. Dinner was ready. But she couldn’t stop watching. The boy lifted the razor into the air. There was no sound. She could not see the girl anymore. The rift in the wall was just too narrow. Then there was sound. It was the sound of groaning. What were they doing? Her mother’s voice rang out again. It’s going to get cold. Come down this instant! Yes Mom, she replied, one ear to the wall. The groaning had stopped. She peered through the small fissure again. She thought she glanced something. It was flesh-colored. It was a bit bluish around the edges. The sound of footsteps. Another bit of flesh. Pink and puffy. She turned around. Her mother was standing in the doorway. One hand rested on her hip. She was holding something in the other. It wasn’t a razor. It was an envelope. The envelope had been torn open. A piece of paper peered out from it curiously. It was a letter. Her mother must have read it. Her mother’s face was stern. It was reproachful. The girl on the bed gasped. The back of her neck had been spattered with something. She wiped her neck with four fingers. Then she looked at them. They were wet. The wetness was translucent. It didn’t give off any distinct smell. It might be spittle, she thought. Or maybe water. Her mother approached the bed. She held out the envelope. One hand was still poised on her triangular hip. This is for you, she said. The girl took it with her dry hand. She held her breath. There was no return address on the envelope. She grasped the pointed corner of the letter. Her hands were trembling. It was quiet in the room now. She pulled the letter out. The inner edges were jagged. They looked as if an animal had gnawed on them. She opened the letter. Her mother was eyeing her. She was tapping her foot. Her mother tapped her foot whenever she was nervous. What was she so nervous about? The girl smiled at her mother nervously. Her mother did not smile back. The girl unfolded the letter with the serrated edges. She looked at the letter and swallowed hard. There were only seven words written on it. They were not words her mother would approve of. They made the girl blush. She did not know who had written the letter. She wanted to know. She wondered if it was the boy next door. Her mother was staring at her. Perhaps her mother was waiting for a response? What could she say, though? She didn’t know who had sent the letter. She felt ashamed. She didn’t know why she felt ashamed, but she did. She imagined the boy next door doing the things in the letter to her. Her face turned red. It was hot. Her mother took a step forward. She raised her right hand to her left ear. Then she hit her daughter. She slapped her with the back of her right hand. The sound both frightened and excited the girl. She had never been hit by anyone before. Her mother was panting. Her face was redder than the girl’s own face. The girl wondered if her mother was excited too. Her mother grabbed the letter from her hand. She crumpled it up and threw it on the bed. The girl put her hand to her cheek. It was warm. It throbbed. She liked the feeling. She wanted her mother to slap her again. Instead, her mother left the room. She didn’t close the door when she left. The girl watched her mother go down the stairs. She could see her through the opening in the door. Her mother was crying. The girl picked up the crumpled letter. How had the edges of the letter gotten so jagged? She looked through the space in the wall. It was dark. She wanted to know who had sent the letter. She could smell fish. She was hungry. Her mouth watered. She suddenly wanted to lick the crack in the wall. She could almost taste it. There was no movement on the other side of the wall. The light had been turned off. She moved her face close to it. She stuck out her tongue. Her face was spattered with liquid. The liquid came from the crack in the wall. It tasted salty. It was salty and wet. She peered through the space again but couldn’t see anything. Everything was black. Should she call out? The smell of burnt fish drifted into her nose. Dinner must be burning. She didn’t care. She wanted to lick the space in the wall. She wanted to taste more of the salty liquid. Her desire was overwhelming. She stuck her tongue out again and pressed it to the crack in the wall. The wall did not taste salty. It was not wet. It was dry as bone. It tasted of plaster. She coughed and wiped her mouth. She wiped it with the back of her hand. Now she was sweating. Her sweat was wet. It was salty. She should go downstairs and eat the fish. She should go and eat the salty burnt fish with her mother. She should tell her mother she was sorry. She had made her mother cry. She should throw the torn letter away and go downstairs. She should throw away the filthy letter with the jagged edges. She picked up the letter and looked at it again. Then she started to feel funny. Her heart was beating fast. Who had written the letter? She looked around the room. There was a hammer in her closet. It was in the toolbox. Her father had put it there. She got up from the bed. She was sweating profusely now. The room was hot like a factory. The air was thick with gray smoke. Why hadn’t she noticed the smoke before? She began to cough. No matter. She needed the hammer. She opened the closet. The toolbox was there, beneath a stack of clothing. She opened it. She took out the largest hammer in the toolbox. It was heavy. She wondered how it would feel to be hit with the hammer. She wondered whether it would hurt very much. She wanted someone to hit her with the hammer. The hammer was very large. She put the head of the hammer into her mouth. It was cool and metallic. It made her gag. Then she pulled the hammer out of her mouth. It was wet with her saliva. This thought excited her. It made her feel tingly inside. She dropped the hammer and climbed onto the bed. She picked up the furrowed letter and ran her fingers over its serrated edges. One of her fingers started to bleed. She wiped some of the blood onto either side of the letter. She licked her salty finger. The letter slid off the bed and onto the floor. The sound of footsteps. She knew she had to act quickly. She picked up the hammer. It only made a small dent the first time. The second time it made a hole the size of a quarter. Pieces of plaster fell onto the edge of the bed. She turned the hammer around. She pulled it like a lever. The wall soon gave. The crack opened wide. She heard a familiar noise and jumped inside. Her father entered the smoky room. He saw the crevice. He saw the plaster. He saw the blood. He picked up the stained, crumpled letter with the jagged edges from the floor. Then he wept. His tears were wet. They were salty. He knew they wouldn’t bring her back.

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