Every inch of me trembles.
I'd trade every breath I have left for the courage to chomp down and let his sweet blood pool in the back of my throat.
The heat and rolling gurgle would be enough satisfaction to offset the coughing – I'd need to dislodge the liquid out of my windpipe eventually.
Or, I'd let myself drown in his crimson. Then I'd die happy, at least.
It crosses my mind, but no. Definitely not today, there's too much to do today.
“Open a little wider,” he says, plunging his hands further into the crevices of my mouth. My lips and cheeks squirm at my thoughts of potential filthy satiation.
It's been weeks.
But, the face goes back on. The human one. The one he sees. I glare up at his blue-masked visage and squint into the relentless examination light.
“No problem, Doc,” I mumble my response a bit clumsily. He doesn't seem impressed with my efforts to speak and fights my tongue back into its oppressed position – pinned to the floor of my mouth.
Jesus, press it harder.
He can't possibly know how my stomach flips at the playful dance shared by his sheathed digits and my wet, swollen sceptre. It's a blind snake, so thirsty.
Then comes the haze of daydream – peripheral at first, but then I'm enveloped in it; I moan, he responds, “I'm sorry, does that hurt?” I say nothing, he goes again, I moan, “Please, do let me know if it's hurting you, I can give you more anaesthetic.” I wink, ushering him back into my mouth, thrilled beyond containment.
The second time his examination is cut deliciously short, with every sweet, ironic, titillating pun very much intended.
I open my eyes wide and bring my jaws together. There's rubber, then crunch, then my teeth collide with enough force to chip the tips of my incisors.
His fingers give little resistance and the flesh separates with surprising ease – I've read that the human finger is as easy to bite through as a carrot, but that's nonsense!
It's much softer than that, if you connect on the plane of smooth bone between knuckles. And, if you're enjoying it half as much as I do, it's like a katana through butter.
I manage to get two fingers. The blood gushes symmetrically down each of my cheeks – a perfect riverbed made by my grinning face allows a meanderless flow to my collar.
He's screaming. I hadn't planned for that, but it doesn't ruin it – his squeal almost perfectly harmonises with the low, nearly deafening quiver in my inner ear – the stressing tremors of a ravenously clenched jaw muscle.
It's beautiful. Too perfect. It has to be now.
“Well, we're done here,” I'm in disbelief at his announcement. Some thrive frustration, I fucking detest it. A thousand screams in my aching head, a hundred mirrors shatter into the smitherines of lost opportunity.
“I still don't know where that pain is coming from, but I have them a good cleaning anyway,” he sounds dejected, but that's all he could have done, my teeth are perfect. I'm back in the room and reality returns the hunger to the rosy, shaking skin of my lips.
“Floss again, make another appointment in a month and we'll see where we're at. But I really do think you should see my guy, he might be able to shed some light.”
Damn his specialist. He doesn't sound nearly as tasty.
“Heavens no, doctor. I couldn't dream of anybody else's hands under the hood.” We laugh at my flippant mechanical metaphor.
“Well, we'll give it another shot,” he turns and absently cleans his already clean tools as I watch the pink mouthwash circle the drain of his sink.
“See if that works in the meantime. You know, with the amount you come around, I'll put my daughter through college!”
“I'll put your daughter through a fucking blender.”
“What?” He does a slow, half-turn back in my direction, still laughing at his terrible joke.
“Hmm? Oh, I didn't say anything? See you in a month, doc.”
Anthony Deane is a writer of the macabre, the disturbing and the jarring. He lives and works in Dublin, Ireland, where he writes for newspapers and magazines as a journalist.