Hatchet On Your Throat

By Rida Shahariyar

Would it ever occur to Carrie that her last wish of being comforted by the warmth of a girl will turn true just as soon as she thought about it

Maybe not, but that is the charm of this whole hopeful wishful thought eating away her brain and optic nerves like the fleas which infiltrated and infested old war stricken workhouses in Great Britain. Time was a very interesting part of a human’s lifespan, it could quicken its pace and shroud a human with dread with its sticky mucky soot. 

Carrie had always liked girls who knew how to hold a hatchet. She had dreamt on and on about these fantasies of hers in a very peculiar endearing way. Mind wandering to the realm of beautiful girls with bosoms that hung low and were as milky as carbonated water, and ones with thighs as big as the universe but vast as a snowy desert. Carrie would lap all of it up like a starved Victorian child on the verge of an undignified death.

These thoughts possessed Carrie like in no way other. She was enchanted. Almost blinded, by girls with hatchets and dark black blood dripping down onto their pale soft bosoms.The girl smelled like rust and spoiled sugar. Her smile was a gash.

Lips were the most provocative part of a beautiful girl. She has wanted to chew one for ages, imagining the softness and the plumpness of their sweet lush. 

Carrie reached up.

She didn't know what part of the girl her hand landed on first, because by then her fingernails had started detaching, plucking themselves like petals: she loves me, she loves me not, she lov— And there was so much red right now, gleaming and glittering against the pale moon-like body. They pooled into the grooves of the floorboards like raspberry jam bubbling over an old stove. Her nostril expanded to take in the stale fruity scent. Her mouth opened, except it wasn’t for words. “Will you do it, my dear Carrie?” asked the girl.

She bit into her arm first, a sharp pain shot up in her, reminding of the love of the hatchet girl. 

Warm, stringy, and a little bitter. Her skin tore like an overripe fruit. She gnawed and chewed bashfully, spitting out a blue nerve that broke apart to spray red all over her face.

The girl smiled, pleased. She nodded and caressed Carrie’s cheek with such love and affection, it almost gave shame to Anne Elliot and Captain Wentworth, with such permeating eyes swooned with love.

Carrie never felt this before. Her entirety had been to live in a peeling room with delusions surrounding her brain lobes with an aphrodisiac manner

She clawed down her chest, eager to trace the same beautiful lines the girl bore, which looked like tree veins growing out of her. Her ribs trembled beneath her like piano keys under a clumsy child’s hand. However there was music here. In the tearing. In the wet. In the way each movement sought after another tune, another line of the music sheet, another revelation. Her hands reached lower.

They trembled with ecstasy.

She wasn’t the smartest in her biology class, but she knew something important sat curled deep inside her. Something sacred and ribbonlike, quite coquette if she presumed. Something girls like her weren't supposed to reach. Not without ceremony and a white lacy veil over her hooded eyes.

She slowly reached down, crawled along her skin almost like a snake which was in heat. She smiled—her eyes all on the girl and her beautiful curvy bosom.

Carrie plunged her hand inside herself. She wanted to reverse herself. Turn the insides out like a delicate, grotesque flower unfurling in time-lapse. And thus, she pressed downward, past muscle and shame and fear, until she could feel something dripping with warm wetness and looped, like a prayer bead which had been in the hands of a christened pious nun on her knees for the father.

It came loose slowly. A pool unraveling. She pulled.

And with every inch of intestine she extracted, she imagined it was a girl's hair she was brushing. Soft. Endless. Gentle.

Then the girl holding her hatchet leaned down.

And kissed her.

Just once, softly, like sealing a tomb.

By Rida Shahariyar