For posterity – Here is my infamous short story from a few years ago. If you enjoyed it, feel free to drop a few bucks over at my Ko-fi!
It started with an itch. That’s the closest sensation I could compare it to, anyway. I woke up nauseous, my mouth fuzzy and dry. I could feel where it was—the furthest molar on the top left side of my mouth. Since having my wisdom teeth removed a few years ago there’s been a space behind this itchy tooth, so I fruitlessly stuck my fingers around there to feel for any abnormalities. Nope, just a tooth. Pulling my lip back was also useless, I could barely see it in the mirror. I decided to deal with this as I dealt with all health problems: pop a painkiller and ignore it.
I checked on it again in the morning and felt no difference–problem solved! The rest of the week was mundane; Jerry backed into someone in the parking lot, it rained for a few days; that’s about it. I was looking forward to kicking back for the weekend and had forgotten about the tooth by that time.
Saturday morning the pain and itch were back. My left cheek throbbed, the pain pushed into my head and gave me a migraine. Called the dentist. Closed. Goddamnit. The next course of action was to get some numbing gel to rub all over the area. Probably used too much because I went from feeling everything to a slack-jawed idiot. The pain was gone but I still felt…itchy. How the fuck do you scratch a tooth? Tentatively, I poked the molar. It felt loose. I imagined it popping out in my sleep, choking me. At least then, I wouldn’t have to go back to work.
Later I had a mishap. The numbing gel helped with the ache but the itch was driving me crazy, so I started sucking on ice, neatly fitting it in the space behind the affronting tooth. It helped…for a minute. Then I’d need a new piece. And another. The ice worked at first but wore off quicker with each chunk. I went through half a cup before realizing something was wrong and the pain returned. Like I’d turned the dial to 11, my tooth was screaming. I rushed to the bathroom, nearly falling over before hurling into the sink. The pain was overwhelming and I couldn’t help but sob. Each heave brought forth a wretched static sensation in my tooth, a buzzing that I couldn’t explain.
That night I just lay awake counting my ceiling tiles and sweating. I flexed my jaw and rolled around for a bit. Okay. I’m a monk under a waterfall. Discipline. Patience. This is my body, not the other way around. I can overcome this. I have to. Can’t afford an emergency dentist, can barely afford rent.
That resilience lasted about ten minutes before I threw the blankets off in frustration and stomped over to the bathroom. I remembered my mom got me a water pick for Christmas last year; it was still in the box. A nice, lukewarm jet of water sounded great. I set it up and aimed. As soon as the stream hit my tooth, I lost vision, my head felt like a bomb had gone off. Extra spit pooled in my mouth before the floodgates opened and I was retching. Something you forget when you don’t barf much–it hurts. My throat felt wrecked, acrid. I kept hurling until there was nothing left and my legs shook. Didn’t make sense at the time—the pain felt like a whirlpool, going faster and faster—but I couldn’t take it anymore. Fuck the dentist, I’ll deal with this myself.
Didn’t take long to find the pliers, another gift for this failure of a handyman, still in the plastic. Cutting it open was taking far too long so I ripped it the rest of the way, jagged edges cutting my arms. The rush was the only thing carrying me along at this point. Chugged some JB for good measure.
Took me a while to get a good grip on the sucker. I was shaking so badly. Propped both my elbows on the bathroom counter, one hand prying my lip as far back as it could go, the other clamped hard on the cursed enamel. Taking a moment to compose myself I glanced at the mirror. I looked like shit, unsurprisingly. Behind the flecks of toothpaste and bile splatters was my haggard, tired face. Oil slick hair and popped blood vessels…I looked more like a tweaker than a software developer. I counted to three…and chickened out. Fuck. I could feel tears coming and angrily wiped them away. I’m no pussy. I could do this. Countdown again. Three, two, one…Pull.
Don’t know what I was expecting. A normal tooth with an angry root, maybe. That part did come out. But what came with it was a stream of small, grey, wriggling worms. I screamed, which was a mistake. Some went down the back of my throat, their long thin bodies disappearing as quickly as they arrived. I didn’t dare close my mouth. The bile kept rising while the worms made their way into my stomach. When I finally regained a modicum of composure I saw a long noodle hanging from my chin.
God, it looks like rotten spaghetti. Oh, that was a mistake. Now I’m vomiting again. Half-digested worms and blood filled the porcelain bowl. I hurriedly cranked on the hot water and tried to flush them down. Still, they kept coming. I couldn’t hold it back anymore, I had to swallow. A hot, writhing mass that stuck partway. I couldn’t breathe. Gasping, clawing, desperate. That’s the last thing I remember before passing out.
I woke up on the floor, covered in blood, vomit and dead worms. The funny thing was, I felt better. Checked my mouth to find it free of anything moving, just a bloody empty hole. Cleaning the mess wasn’t so bad. The tap was still on, so I gave everything a thorough wipe-down, a bit of bleach. Long hot shower. Threw out those pyjamas. Besides that, the only thing I lost was some spaghetti–I couldn’t look at the stuff the same. Staring at those long, twisty noodles made my head hurt and my throat hitch. Threw it all out.
Back to work on Monday, same old. Jerry complained about his car insurance going up. Heather pointed out I had a bit of muck on my face. When I wiped it on the back of my hand there was a worm, still moving.
LORMAGGOT 