Every day, there is a new hole. They tell me they're hungry. They sound upset with me. Especially around dinner, when I’m seated at the kitchen island. The quiet in my home breaks with a small whimper. The voices are high and weak. They cry to me.
“Mama… I’m hungry.”
“It smells good out there.”
“Why do you leave me here?”
At first, I couldn’t place them. They could have been my neighbors through the cheap drywall. They could have been voices merely traveling through pipes. I noticed a tiny hole in my living room wall and figured it was a mouse taking up residency. It was easy to go unnoticed in the mess of a home I keep.
When I found it, the thought of rats rummaging through my things. My things. Offended me. I let it be. I was unequipped to kill a rat. To hear it scream in my home. Its shrill shrieking vocals tend to attract more. To kill one so suddenly would mean war with the rodents. I didn’t have the bloodlust of a soldier. Not yet. There were days I could hear the wailing of an infant through my walls. The woman in the apartment next door was elderly, and the man on the other side was most likely a drug addict. Unless he had a child that I’ve never seen, it couldn’t have been either of them. I watched the halls through my peephole in search of a baby. None. Not one. Maybe a woman with a stroller could be seen. I asked my doorman if there were any expectant mothers in the months prior, but he couldn’t understand me. A foreign man. I began taking the elevator, pressing every button. Holding my breath when the door opened. Waiting to hear the screech of a newborn. An expectant ear unmet.
At the rooftop, I would exit briefly so that my building's cameras wouldn't mark me. A woman on the elevator with no destination. It's a shitty rooftop. Cracks on its asphalt, but the view of the city is breathtaking.
I would leave home thirty minutes early and arrive home thirty minutes later from work to conduct this investigation every day. This went on a few weeks.
One evening, washing my face before bed. I fixated on the crow’s feet pooling around my sullen eyes. Everything around my sunken hollows was bathed in a lilac wash. I noticed another hole, higher up the wall. A giggle bubbled from its depth when my eyes caught it in my peripheral.
“Mama, you’re pretty!”
That was the first thing the holes had ever directly said to me. My eyes widened. I shot a glance directly at it. It sat in the wall at the height of my hip. It's as if the fucking thing knew I had looked at it. As if it was watching me study my face until I noticed it. Waiting with anticipation. Waiting for the right moment to speak to me. Waiting. Waiting.
A rage had collected in me. The rats. The voices. The twenty-three floors of my apartment complex. The cracks in the asphalt. All had flashed in my mind. Taking over my thoughts. Welling in my frontal lobes.
With my phone’s flashlight as my only shield. As my only weapon. I knelt and aimed it directly into the hole.
A baby. The face of the baby. An Asian baby? Clogged deep in the hole, taking up the entire space. Under its chin were skinny, black arms. Its hands had four main fingers and a nub where a thumb should be. The fingers moved with precision. Highly dexterous. At the end of each finger were sharp little nails. The face winced at the brightness.
“Mama!” it yelled, almost offended.
“What the fuck is that?” The words broke through my lungs in a whisper. I wanted to scream.
“Mama!” This time, a plea.
I fell back. The cabinet caught the back of my head. For a moment, everything went white. I blinked it off. I stood too quickly. My head was light, my vision filled with the lights of angels. I ran to the hole in the living room.
It was close to the ground, blocked by empty boxes that had crowded that corner. I kicked through them, clearing directly to the hole. My flashlight as a spear ready to strike. The hole was quiet. Lying on my stomach, I shone the light. This face appeared different. Blonde hair wisping at its forehead, rosy cheeks. The same spindly arms rested under its chin. I found it asleep. It stirred at my light, revealing its icy blue eyes. It awoke and began to wail.
“Mama!” it cried.
The rage had returned. I took a box and punched it into the hole. A temporary seal. I layered more cardboard in, driving it in. I didn’t stop. I couldn’t stop. My knuckles went raw, the skin splitting and bloodied. The surrounding wall was spotted red with blood. I was unsure if it was mine. I hope it was the thing in the wall. The breaking boxes were loud in my ears, but the crying infant still seeped through. I carried on this way until the wailing had quieted and ceased completely.
I woke up the following morning in that same spot, lying with the empty boxes. I was late for work. A pathetic job as an oral surgery assistant. It's uptown, where the street numbers get so high the terrain shifts from the posh, old-money residential to housing projects and cheap medical care. No one cares if I’m late. The surgeons are fresh out of school, fifteen years my junior. The patients even younger. I couldn’t sit still that day. I spent most of it twisting my hair, fixing my scrubs, and picking at the skin next to my nails. Everyone noticed though no one cared to comment. I nearly screamed when a patient grabbed my arm. An odd girl in her early twenties, needle in her vein, fighting sleep.
“Can… hehe can… can I keep my teeth?” she struggled as the anesthesia slowly took her. Her voice was soft. Sweet. I gasped. The doctor jumped.
“We don’t do that here.”
Her operation was quick. The surgeon retrieved her upper third molars cleanly. Well-preserved. Her bottom wisdom teeth fought harder. The surgeon readjusted over her open mouth. With every crack, his posture grew erratic. With every crunch, my mind drifted home. When the surgery was finally over, I took her preserved teeth and sealed them. I gave them to her when she came to.
After work, I stopped at the hardware store. My cart was full of as much quick-dry concrete as I could hold on a subway. I arrived tired. My arms weak from the heavy bags. The cardboard remained untouched, so I opted to start dinner. It should have held while I made a quick meal.
Food is an overlooked staple in American culture. Most being comfortable shoveling whatever poor taste artery-congesting garbage they can get their hands on. On that night’s menu was a simple Shrimp and Pasta dish with white wine sauce. It’s quick. It’s nourishing. Eating. The enjoyment of eating. Is an art that cannot be merely defined by the preparation of food. It is a profound, universal language that opens windows to cultural identity. In a pot filled with water, I set it to boil. The water should taste of the sea as Italians are seafarers. Such a simple task in cooking can be defined as a noble craft, a demanding skill that requires precision. That requires thought. That requires attention. My sharpest knife minced the finest garlic. I threw those pieces into an imported Greek olive oil that I ordered in bulk. The aroma from such an easy action fills the room. Food is everything we are and everything we will become. It is an extension of nationalistic and ethnic roots. It is an imprint of our personal history. I placed a few jumbo shrimp in the hot pan and seasoned them with salt and pepper. I sautéed them for no more than 90 seconds, then transferred them to a plate and set them aside. Cooking is a discipline. Contrary to what society would have you believe, cooking is not a high-minded art form. It is work. I heated the remaining olive oil in the now-empty pan over medium heat. Once hot, I sautéed the garlic, shallots, Fresno pepper, and a pinch of salt until the aromatics began to brown. There is value in street food, though not the garbage that is served on these city streets. To plow your mouth with a hot dog made of pig feet and entrails or to serve your children chicken nuggets made of shredded gizzard is an offense to the human body. Good street food comes with care. Next, I squeezed in the juice of half a lemon, then deglazed the pan with the wine. I let it simmer until the liquid reduces and I’m left with about 3/4 cup in the pan. An admirable thing you do see in the culinary world is camaraderie. Chefs carry their careers, their meals, their culture with pride. This pride, similar to that of policemen and firefighters, allows them to navigate the high-stress field of a commercial kitchen. I added some of the reserved pasta cooking water and the butter. Once the butter melted into the sauce, I strained the cooked pasta and added it to the pan with the sauce. I sprinkled Parmigiano over the top and mixed until the pasta was well-coated. A last benefit in the art of eating is connection. Though I spend my evenings alone, eating with another is the ultimate act of intimacy and clear empathy. You let down your guard. A soldier is easier to kill at a table than on a battlefield. Sitting across from someone, you notice their habits. Their strain. How they cover their mouth when they chew, how they dip their bread into their sauce. The true challenge is looking past the stereotypes you have of others and connecting with humanity in this universally shared experience. Everyone experiences hunger. I folded the shrimp back into the pan, along with chopped parsley, and stirred just until everything was warmed through and well combined. My meal was finally ready. I took a plate and served it. I sat with a glass of wine, loaded my fork, and readied for my first bite. From the corner of my living room, I heard paper fall.
“Mama…” the voice was rough, “don’t be so mean.”
It echoed from the living room, cutting through my appetite.
“Mama, I’m hungry too.” This voice was closer, coming from the kitchen. I watched as black, twisted hands clawed their way out. “Can you feed me too, mama?”
“I am not your mother! Get out of my home!” I had already shifted, preparing the concrete.
“Where am I supposed to go, mama?” the voice was deepened. It sounded like a man.
“Anywhere else! Anywhere!” I yelled out. My body moved to the kitchen hole, the face of a sun-kissed child almost pushed through. I punched it back with my bare hand. Its face felt scratchy against my fist. I angled the bowl of concrete and it poured into the hole. It mimicked suffocation. A gurgling sound through concrete. Air bubbles burst through the concrete. The wall in the living room began to cry. The innocent cry of a baby.
I turned. The wall had about a dozen holes. Each with its own bellowing. Each with a different face. I armed myself. This time, with the knife I’d used on the garlic.
“Mama, are you going to make us a meal?” it was taunting me.
My body moved before my mind. I stepped to the highest hole and drove the knife through its face. The baby smiled. Giggled.
“That’s not the meal we want.” the voice childlike again.
Heat pulsed back through the handle into my palm, as if the wall itself were pushing against the blade. I kept driving the knife in. Again and again and again and again. The edge of my blade caught against something fibrous, resisting before giving just enough for me to drive it deeper. More holes had formed. The hole tightened around the blade. I pulled back before it closed completely. I struck another hole. Then another. Then more. With each hole that closed, more had opened in another place on the wall. I screamed. My hands were covered in dark red blood. Too dark to be human.
“We’ll be good, Mama,” the wall bargained. “You just need to feed us.”
Something in me ignited. I lunged toward the wall, slashing with every motion. The blade bit into one of them. I severed the arms clean at the joint. They dropped twitching to the floor, still curling, still reaching. My entire apartment shuddered. I hurt it. The hole didn’t close.
“Mama!” It broke into a cry.
A laugh escaped me as I cut more arms. A pile of small black limbs gathered at my feet, some still flexing, nails scraping weakly against the floor. I slashed. I sliced. The walls screamed in agony. I found a rhythm. Each strike landed in time with its pain.
“STOP IT.” The man’s voice cut through. The facade was gone.
I laughed louder. The screaming and the scrape of metal blurred into something orchestral. I returned to the first hole and swiped again. The walls quieted. My hands didn’t. I raced throughout the rooms. Dismembering each of them. The blade dragged something soft back with it, stringing from the edge before snapping wetly against the wall. Warm fluid spilled over my fingers, thick and slow, settling into the creases of my knuckles before slipping down to the floor.
I was interrupted by a knock on the front door. As I made my way to the peephole, a small whimper carried from the other side.