Porcupine

Its mouth is empty. Empty of teeth, empty of tongue, empty of words. Not empty of blood, but that's not taking up much space. There's plenty of room. It hurts, of course, but there's worse pain in the world. It knows, because it's felt it. It's been knocked around, and it's been lied to, and it's been stabbed in the back, and it's been abandoned, and it's done with all that. They can't hurt it if they're too scared to come near.

It shatters the wide window in front of it. A bounty of shards cascade to the floor, sparkling all the way down. It thanks the once-pristine pane for its sacrifice, and picks up the first shard. Just the right size, and Sharp at both ends. It takes a deep breath, and plunges it into its bleeding gums.

It's excruciating. It can feel the shard shredding the soft tissue in its mouth, searching for a secure spot to settle into. But when it finds it, it holds firm. Once it's certain the first one is in place, it begins adding more, first one or two at a time, then handfuls, stuffed in haphazardly, somehow all finding their rightful place in its mouth. When it's finished, it makes its way to the nearest mirror to admire its handiwork. It grins wide, displaying row after row of Sharp, jagged, vicious fangs. Beautiful. Untouchable. Impervious. Perfect.