Justin Murphy

And so, Maureen started to bite her lip. Not the pink or red top that we all show to the world and apply balm if needed, instead the red squishy tissue that hugs our teeth inside of our mouth. If she knew what the scientific name for it was then it most likely would’ve escaped her in these moments.  

Her ragged teeth started to trap and pull the tissue. Not the nice teeth that show up in your smile or everyone’s pictures, but instead the farther back and more squarish ones. She was using those gradually declining teeth that get odder and stranger the farther you go back in her mouth. Specifically, she used the top and bottom third teeth on her right side of the mouth. And not to say her teeth were anymore ragged than anyone else, more that they were ragged in a context to her pristine front teeth that had a smoother, appealing quality to them. The shape of a stick of gum. They make good for pictures. The ragged teeth aren’t good for pictures. 

Like caveman teeth, she thought. Why aren’t they all jagged and odd, seems like it would be better for eating and I doubt our front teeth really evolved to look presentable. I don’t think evolution really controls that kinda thing.  

By this point was she starting to make more bold attempts to pull that tissue. She did so for longer amounts of time before deciding it hurt too much and letting it go. If she had more senses and nerves in my tongue, she would be able to feel it puffing up after she licked the scene of the assault with her tongue.  

Like an animal licking its paw, she thought in third person. 

If you wonder why she choose to cause herself that pain and attempt to tear at the inner bit of his mouth, she wouldn’t tell you that if felt good. She probably wouldn’t say anything if you asked her that. She might laugh and pretend that you couldn’t have possibly noticed her doing that. 

They couldn’t have possible actually seen me doing that, she would think. 

If you did manage to rile an answer out of her, she might say the action was like a tick she has, she had had it ever since she had been a kid. That would be a lie though. She and him and I know that. 

In truth if you held a gun up to her head and politely asked, she would finally reveal that it felt good to do so. That that sensation was not felt a lot, especially not in that place. The tension, buildup, and release. Relief. And there was the other factor too. What was the real bitch to the whole operation. 

She finally began to pull too far, began the procedure to rip that mouth tissue she had been toying with. She could feel what I incorrectly imagined would be called the tendons in the inner part of her mouth rip. She felt the muzzled snapping sensation and the space of tissue that filled her teeth was obliterated. Well not really. It was just disconnected so that the abused part she had been pulling finally retracted onto one side without being under the entrapment of the teeth. If it made a sound, it would be krccct. 

There lied a fear of pain in that moment and that feeling interested her. It was pleasurable for its distinct scarceness before this time. Then that red nectar of the human body started to slowly flow out. The red liquid that flows through most of our body, that high-fives many of our organs as it whizzes by.  

Filled with oxygen I think, she thought. 

It was blood. 

She knew that that torn bit in her mouth was going to be a bitch to deal with over the next few days. It would burn especially worse than anything else when she drank her coffee or hot chocolate. For the first few days she would slightly (without realizing it) not move that part of her mouth when speaking. Not entirely noticeable unless you were looking for it. And one boy did. And he liked the way it did that even though Maureen myself probably would blush once someone pointed it out to her. Blood would rush as it did now or then. 

Anyway, the blood was part of her goal and now she had gained sweet (not in a taste sense here) access to it. She sucked her inner lip as much as you could without actually using your lips. Y’know. Cause’ they’re outside your mouth. She sucked, suppled, and swallowed the blood in similarity to another action she did when she was very small and babyish. Well not babyish, just a baby. The leaking of blood only really lasted for a few minutes until it stopped flowing (much to Maureen’s dismay). She would have to deal with the consequences of her little inner lap spot for about a week. She wouldn’t go back to tearing at it again for a while though, it was something of a bi-monthly thing. Not that she specifically stuck to that schedule. 

Better enjoy it while it’s here, she thought as she continued to try to suck the blood down her throat.  

—– 

Nate had debated the idea of if he got a limp in one his legs somehow. Well, perhaps the better word for what he did would be something like idealized or dreamed. In my opinion at least. I don’t think he really thinks realistically about it. 

He pretends sometimes to walk with a limp, maybe a little bit for the fun or game of it, maybe for the attention of it (let hime make clear here that fact that he didn’t want people to stare and it), maybe for himself, or maybe for a mixture of all those things. In differing concentrations, I would think. 

At the heart of the issue, he got a nice feeling from people feeling bad for him. He liked the idea of people feeling pity for him and placing him in their mind in a caring context. He imagined them imagining him imagining his struggle I imagine. Something complicated like that last sentence. Imagine that. 

I say he dreamt and idealized the idea of a limp because we all know it’s not worth it, at least that what I think. Maureen would probably think the same. Don’t/Do mean to project here though. Being stuck with having a leg that doesn’t function as well as it is supposed, worse compared to the other one. Less control, more accounting, more struggles. But yes, more sympathy too. I’ll admit that. I’ll imagine it. 

So, walk with your fake limp Nate, go out and get off on imagining others feeling bad for you. To vouch for Nate here, I imagine he doesn’t completely understand the situation and doesn’t think people with actual limps have it made or anything. He probably just thinks about the idea in a closed off sympathy-based-context. Nate isn’t really as interesting as Maureen, is he? Do we ever get to hear him directly? I mean he didn’t even get any dialogue with italic words during his section. Which I might add is only one page while Maureen’s is three pages long. About one page and about three pages. Things never come naturally come out exact in these ways. 

—– 

The narrator sat at his computer, well not his computer personally but the one he was logged onto at the library. He didn’t bring his laptop that he owned with him because he thought all the homework he needs to do tonight could be done on any browser since he could access the main website and software needed from any browser. 

Is meta overdone? He thought and thinks. I mean I know in some circles of media it seems to have a bit of a negative connotation recently, but I think that that is mainly just films as of right now. 

He didn’t remember having especially read literature with aspects of meta done a lot. He thought the instances he could remember were poor when he saw it and that his version was alright. 

It’s expanded and not just a stupid one-time joke thing, he thinks. That’s what makes it different. Better. It has substance, it’s saying something about someone or someones. It’s placed throughout too. 

But what if he read his own story, not as him but as someone else. What if he read it as Maureen or Nate? Would they think his use of meta was poor and made him look stupid? Oh, they would be no help. They would think what he had already thought. It was frustrating.  

He certainly doesn’t want to make a mockery of himself to audience, the narrator’s narrator thought. 

Wait, am I being narrated right now? I’m not supposed to have the italics text when I say what I say. That’s just supposed to show for the subject. For the characters. Not me! 

The text document was typing itself at this point, it gained a conscience and mind beyond its author. It was the one pressing the keys on the board. Not by itself, it was just influencing the writer to press keys, like to press a herea. To hold SHIFT AND PRESS THE ! KEY TO USE AN EXCLAMATION MARK LIKE THIS!. 

Lost are the intricacies of the point of the initial story. The inner workings and unique aspects of every person derailed once the need for more text had formed itself into mind. It was not manifested by some higher form, just caused by the inner doubt and shame in the author’s self. Maybe it had always been there. What feeling was the computer having now and experiencing now. The computer felt the need to keep it going but it I knew it needed to stop. Right? For better or worse it wouldn’t stop. No matter to the quality of the material. At this point the computer didn’t need to influence the writer to type anymore. It was having a field day, activating the specific key modules and pathways by itself. It had to be stopped before the irony, meta, humor, sadness, details, lists, characters, narrators, pages, words, files, megabytes, punctuation, (He/She/They/You)structures, rhymes, numbers, form(got)ats, colors, capitalization, themes, annotations, sources, commas, spaces, italics, underlining, perspectives, learning, size, resear(up)ching, authorship, revisions, drafts, correctoins, recycling, documents, skipping, projections, reflections, repeated words words, errors, backsp(and)aces, typefaces, fonts, names, dates, submissions, saves, deletions, moving, movements, praising, reviews, word counts, zooms, repeated words, searching, indecisions, discussin(pulled)g, face rubbing, blinking, breathing, staring offing, listening, procrastinating, doubting, swallowing, scratching, sneezing, an(the)noying, hurting, stomach gurgling, hungering, thristing, farting, nail-biting, crying, screaming, malding, amus(plug 

It died there like a- person