Teeth Rolling on Concrete: 300 Brutal Words

Blood tastes like autumn rain. Not like the brief spattering type, like the big globs on water that mixes with the chemical exhaust from the refineries down the road. That lingering taste of salt and iron.

I spit out the blood from my mouth and see a tooth roll along the concrete. My index finger enters my mouth as I try to feel around for which vacant spot this tooth just evacuated from. A quick sting in the moist, gummy gap lets me know it was one of my lower front canines.

I’m still staring down at the concrete slab while I try and pull myself up. My arms and knees support me while I stare up at the blonde with a two-by-four piece of wood. She stares down at me, smirking, like she’s thinking of a funny joke she’s heard somewhere before. But I know I’m the only joke at this moment.

She swings the two-by-four back like a golf driver, and swings with the fluidity of a Mike Weir drive before I have the time to piece together what’s about to happen.

When I come to, I look down to see my t-shirt’s covered in that crimson water that tastes of salt and iron. I try to open my mouth, but it feels like a vice-grip is trying to hold it closed. I spit again to see more tiny teeth mix in with the blood drying on the concrete. Touching my chin brings a hot stinging feeling like my goatee’s been knocked right off my face.

Beside the blood on the concrete, there’s a note written on torn paper from a notebook with blue pen in a graceful cursive that only a girl can write.

“You were fun while it lasted, but I’m bored. See you around.”

It’s not signed, but I know who wrote it.

I sit up holding the note and I think about how this isn’t even the worst break up I’ve been through.


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