Hungering Teeth.

October 12th, 1777.

Before reading this chapter, huge trigger warning, body horror and self harm.

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I saw the frantic look in her eyes as I watched her use a cloth to shroud the mirrors. My mother. I could feel the cool air seeping through the cracks in the windows. Her actions seemed like an ancient ritual cursing the reflection of the devil himself. The only entity that could induce my father to sow such a bitter and ultimately fatal field. It was almost as if the chilly air personified the melancholy that was within the darkest corners of our hearts, tethering us to the loss that were etched into our memories.

Her whispering floated around me but remained indistinguishable. I could sense her desperation, though. "We gotta cover all the windows... Don't want the devil's gaze falling upon our sanctuary."

My father's decaying body laid on the bed we no longer rest on. He was gone, and his once-strong arms were now nothing but still, cold limbs.

As the day bled into the night, I found myself curled up on the floor near the crackling fireplace. My eyes drooped, heavy with sleepiness.

My mother's anxious voice coiled tight within my chest like a fist, wrapping around the familiar words of prayer. A ghostly ritual that had been etched into my memory since I'd been old enough to speak.

"Did you say your prayers?" She asked.

"Yes, Mama." I murmured, my body shifting slightly.

I watch her, she grabbed candles, lighting them before kneeling to the bed.

The air in the room, thick with the scent of burnt candles and sweat.

Her hands were clasped so tightly around the small wooden cross, her lips feverishly, muttering a scripture under the breath, but the words no longer made sense— disjointed verses tangled with each other, slurred by desperation.

"The Lord is my Shepherd, I— I shall not... He maketh me to lie down— no, no! Not there, not in the valley of— The righteous will... will fall into the pit!" Her voice broke, words spiraling into gibberish. She dragged the cross over her chest with frantic movements, scratching it against her skin as though she could carve the salvation she so desperately sought into her flesh.

My heart thrummed in my chest as her mutterings took on a new form. She began to speak in tongues, a low, guttural sound rising from her throat. The words weren't her own anymore.

The foreign syllables spilled from her mouth like a curse. Her eyes, bloodshot and wide, darted frantically around the room as if seeing things that no one else could.

Sweat poured down her face, mixing with the blood trickling from the open wounds on her palms— self-inflicted gashes from hours of clutching the cross too hard. Her body convulsed, her limbs jerking uncontrollably, as though something inside her was fighting to break free.

"Forgive me, Father!" she screamed suddenly, her voice cracking, as her hands shot to her scalp, clawing at her hair. "For I have sinned! I have sinned in thought, in word, in deed—" Her fingers dug into her skin, pulling out strands of hair, her scalp red and raw. Patches of hair lay strewn on the floor around her like grotesque offerings.

"Mommy!" I sobbed, but my pleas echoed. "Mommy! Mommy!"

Her breathing became shallow, labored, as her nails scraped at her arms, leaving angry red lines in their wake. The flesh under her fingernails seemed to bubble and blister, as though her body itself was rejecting her madness. Blood dripped down her forearms, staining her torn nightgown.

I screamed as loud as I could for it to stop— whatever it was.

Suddenly, she stopped, her body freezing mid-motion, her eyes rolling to the back of her head before whispering, "Elohim, take me." Her body trembled, then began to bend backward, unnaturally, her spine arching as though some invisible force pulling her taut like a bowstring.

I couldn't move. My body glued to the floor as my stomach twisted with her. I've seen her pray before, but never like this.

Suddenly, her head snapped forward, her gaze locking onto mine. "You!" she rasped, her voice like sandpaper. "You are the reason. The blood! The blood of the lamb!" Her voice rose to a shriek as she lunged forward, fingers clawing at the air.

"The blood of the son is upon you! The curse is yours!"

I stumbled backward, my eyes widened as her hands claw at my shirt. Her grip was weak, but her eyes— they were wild, manic, filled with a terror so deep it seemed to radiate from her very soul.

"Mommy, please—" I try to pull away, but her grip tightened, her nails digging into my skin with surprising strength.

"It's too late!" she shrieked, her voice cracking, her body trembling. "The angels, they told me. They showed me what you are! You cannot hide from him!"

Her nails scraped down my arms, leaving thin trails of blood, and I wrenched myself free, stumbling backwards as she collapsed to the floor, her body convulsing again. She began to mutter once more, her voice hoarse, as she curled into a fetal position.

"Mama..." I whimpered, lip trembling.

"Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed by thy name... thy kingdom come... Thy kingdom..." The words broke into sobs, the rhythmic chanting descending once more into unintelligible whispers and gasping breaths.

And then silence.

Her body went still, her breath coming in slow, ragged gasps. I stare at her, chest heaving, unsure if she was still conscious. The candles flickered violently.

She lay there, unmoving, except for the faint rise and fall of her chest. Her fingers twitched, her lips barely moving as she whispered one final, broken phrase.

"Forgive me...."

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ripedsins.