Her teeth are what I remember most, how white they were, how sharp they looked, framed by lips stretched into a smile wide and bent like a demonic Jack O Lantern. Her teeth. Not the incessant screaming of her victims. Not the blood, both the trajectory and quantity, raining down like a spring storm cloud’s first ejaculatory release.
I had never seen her smile before that day, not once since she arrived at the facility six months before. A prison masquerading as a hospital, one that required no judge or jury to lock someone away for the rest of their life. Bullies and masochists dressed up as doctors, as caregivers to those accused of being insane.
Most of the committed bow down and accept their fate. I certainly did. I thought she had as well. What I mistook for complacency turned out to be patience, letting the rage build and build until, one day, all it took was a small act of aggression, a shove from one of the staff as she shuffled her circles around the maze of halls, that instead of moving her out of the way, plunged her over a dark precipice.
Her teeth are what I remember most from that day. I keep the image of them in my mind while I wander the world, as free as someone can be living in the shadows. I hope to see that smile again one day, to find her and thank her, dedicate myself to whatever journey she takes in life and whatever other injustices she chooses to fight. To ask her to teach me how to keep my teeth as white, and just as sharp.
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Photo by Alexander Krivitskiy on Unsplash
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