Don't put words in my mouth

It didn’t matter that they were pleasant. She didn’t like them. They romped and leapt from tooth to tooth, and slithered across her cheeks. Laughing. Chasing one another. Having fun. As if she were a playground. An effing playground, for god’s sake!

Didn’t anyone believe in respect anymore? Apparently not.

One scrambled over her lower central incisors, pried her lips apart, and peered out. She could feel the tiny fingers, like wet spider legs, groping for purchase. Was it going to try to get out? Oh, god, as much as she hated having them in there, it would be worse than awful if they got out!

She bit down hard and sucked it back in, not even bothering to apologize, though she knew she’d hurt it. It lay there for a bit, alone, highlighted in its isolation. It almost shimmered as it lay whimpering there. She hadn’t know what shimmering felt like until then, and couldn’t say how she knew that’s what it was doing, but she knew nonetheless.

Slowly, it began to move again. A wiggle here. A waggle there. Testing its own health after her … attack. Brutal, but that’s what it had been. An attack. From somewhere towards her tonsils, guilt came roaring in, whip in hand, scourging her soft palate until she felt it bleed, a single drop. The drop let go its hold and splashed upon her victim.

And suddenly, it was up and moving again, running, hopping, leaping as if she’d never nearly murdered it. She didn’t want them there. That didn’t mean she was a freaking murderer. She just wanted them to go. She’d make them go. She had to.

She took a deep breath and shouted to no one in particular, “Stop putting words in my mouth!”

About suzanawylie

Suzana Wylie is the not-very-pseudo pseudonym of Susan Wylie Wilson, because let's face it, there are lots of Susan Wilsons around, and as an author, I want readers to find ME and not the bazillions of others. I've been writing all my life - since I learned to hold a pencil anyway - and can't NOT write. Other people have to breathe to live; I have to write.
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