Fangs

It goes back to some where in Saddar, Karachi. A ten year old me holding my temporary Principal's hand in one of my baby palms and the other was clutched upon by Ramla, my friend, the Principal's daughter. I think Mania was with us that day but those were the blissful times when I had been oblivious to Mania's existence and she would never declare the same for me. Don't you just love her!

I helped myself on to a giant chair that wore an umbrella of all sorts of machinery and tools, as I remember it.
"Open your mouth please," the man in white gloves asked me.

The wasted indistinct fragments of memory collected by me from my hesitant combination of synapses have released the information that my mouth, that day, was then filled with something like chewing gum or may be that is what it was or it could just be Polyvinyl siloxane; it tasted like strawberry to me or it could have been flavored. Emphasis was put upon obtaining the impression of my canines. I had no questions to ask. The Principal had met us last night or the night before at Ramla's place and the next thing I knew my canines were taken the impression of.

A week later or so, after maghrib, I walked behind a scattered group of people pacing down a dark lane. I knew the people very well. The houses that stood on that street looked very rich. I paced, hopped, ran a little. Why I was there has always been the craziest of questions left for me to decipher.

We turned to a house that was under construction or maybe it was haunted. It looked haunted to me. I became nervous. I was afraid of being the last one in the crowd. I started fearing the unseen lurking behind me so I made sure one of the people from the group was. The snaking single file of people slithered up the broken, undone stairs.

I was then presented with my fangs. I embraced them and a mortal neck was bitten.