Fangula

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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Non-Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic

Submitted: March 21, 2018

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Submitted: March 21, 2018

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 So, I go to the dentist the other day; I had made the appointment a few weeks ago, sort of a gut instinct, in anticipation of the pain that I knew  would eventually come if I should delay the inevitable any longer.

I'm sitting there, in the waiting room, so many magazines for me to read, sports illustrated , time, newsday, Elle, cosmopolitan; I suppose they must cater to each individual experience.

 

I notice different names on the address of the cover, probably the secretaries, maybe the receptionists, perhaps even the doctor himself;  the one that was about to cause me so much pain.

After a short while, I am called by my last name, by some cute nurse  I can only assume based on her physique as her face was covered by a mask and, so I follow her, down a long winding hall into the X-ray room. 

I am directed to stand real still in the center of this machine that will swing around me.

 

She hands me some sort of vest to protect my chest and helps me to cloth my self in this heavy material; then leaves the room explaining she will just be taking a few pictures.

 

After a few swivels of this mechanical device that swirls around me, she returns and explains, everything is alright, removing he heavy suit from my body then directs me to a new room, further down the hall.

 

I am asked to lay down on a puffy leather chair while  she releases some remote controlled pressure button, which leans me back as she mechanically moves an arm chair mirror  and two instrument table  platforms, surrounding the left and right of me.

 

In a short while, a doctor arrives, with a new aide, both wearing paper formed maskes around their face, asking  me how I am feeling, how I am doing. My feelings have no place here, and I am doing nothing.

 

The aide asks me open my mouth wide. She stuffs flavorless marshmallow shaped cotton gauze between my gums and my teeth , then nods at the doctor.

 

He grabs, what appears from my careful perifereal attentiveness, a sharply pointed paired of pliers, and begins to pulls.

 

 I feel the tugging, the pulling, the release, and a sudden yet immediate vacant emptiness of void; a hollowness.

 

The Nurse and the Doctor seem to communicate only through their eyes. Silence is deafing under certain deafening circumstances.

 

I am not sure what is going on; except for the taste of blood in my mouth.

 

I can't even remember the pin prick of the novocanium needle that piecred my fleshy roof mouth wall and gumline. It must have worked. 

 

A suction device is plunged into my sore jawline and I hear the click of a heavy tooth being bounced round in some metal wash basin.

 

I let go of my second chance at chewing. My infancy went by so quickly I barely  even noticed. Now, in my adulthood my last set of teeth seemed childish.

 

Then the real pain begins.

The new metal tooth, sharp and pointy , made of a metallic material that can not be broken appears on the end of a tool.

 

Shoved up, inserted, crunching, and locked into place, the doctor holds his performance with confident penetration.

 

The aide then brings a hot white light up and under the roof my mouth, correcting her placemen, burning the implant into its new home.

 

The pain is unbearable.

 

I suddenly remember what it was to teethe as an infant.

 

And, now I am born again, with new taste for life.

A new lust for clawing away at the things with my teeth.

 

 I am hungry for life, once more.

 

These teeth smile and charm; however , its what behind them that should concern you.

 

So, with fair waning I will say , I didn't let it happen. I allowed it. I gave in, so that I may arrive here.

 

I made it happen.  I remember  what I once was, and how I became to be what I am.

 

By decision and choice. 

 

I decided to bite harder.

 

With new teeth now, how I choose to use them is up to me.

 


© Copyright 2018 Dr. Acula . All rights reserved.

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