Castles by Benjamin X Wretlind Page B

with his mouth slightly open, tongue buried far enough for me to look closely. I pulled on his tongue once with my fingers, but it managed to slip out and back into his mouth. The fight to get a good grip was fuel enough for me to be even angrier than I was, and I felt I had no choice but to cut the damn thing off. Eventually, I gave up and found a pair of pliers laying on the countertop.
    The man opened his eyes when I pulled on his tongue. I probably pulled too hard, too fast, but I was ready to finish the job, to cut out his forked tongue. His wide eyes stared up at me. He tried to speak, but the grip of the pliers kept his tongue in check. He mumbled something incoherent and screamed when I showed him the scissors. There was enough tape to keep his body relatively still, but he fought to get out.
    The scissors cut well, but the tongue was so rubbery it took a minute to get through the whole thing. About halfway through, I stopped. Blood poured out of the cut and filled his mouth. The occasional cough splattered some blood back in my face. The majority, though, simply spilled over the side of his lips while his scream turned into what sounded like a drowning cat.
    While the man screamed some more, I made the last snip. It was effortless at that point, and about an inch of his tongue remained in the grip of the pliers. He gurgled a few times—drowning, I think—then quietly whimpered. Watching his eyes was wonderful and enticing. I could read his mind, and I knew he could read mine. Grandma never told me how the simple act of cutting the tongue could make my juices flow and lips tremble with excitement.
    All she said was that my castle would grow larger.
    I slid my body on top of his and wondered what his tongue would feel like in the palm of my hand, rubbing against my naked self. I could guide it better that way—across my breasts, my stomach, my inner thighs and finally back and forth between my legs. I reached a climax just as the man let out his last breath and fell silent. With a shudder and loud sigh, I collapsed and kissed him, drinking the last of the warm blood pooled inside his mouth.
    When I woke up, I was naked and curled on the kitchen floor.
    Something changed in me that night, and I'm sure it has something to do with what I'm feeling now. Like I said: I think you miss something grand when you fail to look at the whole. All of these pieces of life are part of that whole, and it's such a grand sight to see.
     

DUSTY
     

1
     
    The school I attended as a teenager was a mix of those well-to-do folks, those in the middle class of everything, and the ragamuffin types that live in the park. Like many large-city schools, it's diverse. Such diversity breeds contempt, and that contempt breeds people with a strikingly low sense of self-worth who react to situations in ways that are often violent.
    I was thankful Justin wasn't one of these people. Aside from a fight with Michael and me over rights to the story of the body in the Bus years ago, Justin hadn't done anything remotely violent. He wasn't confrontational at all and was frequently a pushover. I often wonder if Justin would have taken to the stage of my life at all if Michael hadn't vanished.
    As we walked home from school, Justin threw rocks at the fence. "Do you think he ran away?"
    "Who?"
    "Michael."
    I swallowed. I know he didn't run away, but there was no way I was going to try to explain what I saw nearly a year ago to Justin or anyone else. It was a brick in my castle, no one else's. "No," I finally said.
    Justin was silent for most of the walk home. When we were about to part at the street corner, he looked at the house where Michael used to live. Dusty was tied to his chain in the front yard, sleeping under the shade of a mesquite tree.
    "Do you still walk that ugly dog?"
    "Dusty? He's not ugly."
    Justin chuckled and took a step toward me. He was so much taller than Michael ever was, and I found myself aroused by his closeness. "I think that dog is