Horror Bound Online Magazine

Navigation

Home

Submission Guidelines

Contact

Staff

Featured Review

Sponsors

Featured Interview

Author Interview

Ads

The Dental Phobe by Steven Michael Sarber (Issue 9)

The hum of the overhead fluorescent lights droned in Alexander's head. His knees shook, and his chest was pounding. The hum may have been the thrum from his blood pressure, in reality. His vision was blurred—he couldn't make out the words of the People magazine in his lap. His hair clung to his forehead, drenched in sweat.

“Is this pain really bad enough for this?” He said in a cracked voice.

A startled ten-year-old girl clutched onto her mother, newfound fear in her own eyes.

“Scaring kids, what a loser,” he muttered. “I'm leaving, that's all there is to it.”

So he ran out of the waiting room like the place was on fire, laughing at the thought that his hasty exit probably scared the little girl more than his crazy appearance and absent-minded mutterings. But laughing hurt—bad.

Ten minutes later he plopped down on the red futon in his sparsely furnished bungalow. The pain pills he'd taken had long worn off, but he couldn't will himself into getting up to retrieve more just yet. He was nursing an abscessed molar, and the pain was incredible. It no longer was confined to his jaw—his entire head was a victim to its wrath. Hadn't he read somewhere that in the old days they used whiskey to ease toothache pain? It could be a bad idea to mix whiskey and painkillers, he was sure of that, but Alexander was desperate.

Once he got up and went into the bathroom, a quick look in the mirror told him everything he needed to know. His face was a pasty white, his jaw swollen, and there were black and blue puffy bags under his eyes. His lips had a bluish tint as well.

Whiskey it was. Liquid anesthetic, or courage, one way or another alcohol was going to be a necessity. Because if the infection didn't kill him, the panic would push him over the edge. You could certainly die of a heart attack, and that's exactly what would happen if he allowed himself to be strapped into a dentist's chair. And strapped in was the only way he was getting into one.

He hadn't been to a dentist in nearly eighteen years. Not since Dr. Landon had dropped a diamond tipped drill bit down his throat. The dentist removed it without incident—Alexander hadn't even been scratched.

But he was forever terrified of the dentist nonetheless.

With the uncertain judgment of his pain impaired mind, he worked out a plan. In his cluttered garage he located his toolbox, an old beat up metal box inherited from his father. The lock on the lid had never been opened since he'd acquired the set—Alexander was not mechanically inclined, and had no real use for tools. Until now. He located the key on his keyring and inserted it in the slot on the Master lock. He turned the key, praying it would move. It resisted at first, but then gave way and turned easily, allowing the bolt to slip free and the lock to open. Lifting the lid, he saw everything he needed was present and accounted for. Alexander re-closed the toolbox, but didn't lock it, and carried it inside to the living room.

Next—the liquor. But first, two more of his Vicodin, and a couple ibuprofen. It was safe to use the two together, right? The were totally different; hydrocodone, acetaminophen, and ibuprofen, so what could the harm be? Whatever the case, he was doing it anyway.

Then he left for the corner store on foot, didn't feel comfortable driving. He felt a bit woozy, and besides, it was only a two-block walk.

Henri, the clerk at Brown's Market, looked on him with sympathy.

“A bad tooth, huh? That's the pits. God, two things that can bring a grown man to his knees—a sunburn, and a toothache. The Wild Turkey's to take the edge off?”

Normally he would stay and chat with Henri, the guy had the scoop on everything happing in the neighborhood. But all he could manage was a nod, and that made his head throb so badly his eyes began to water.

His small house had never been much to look at; peeling paint, and dirty windows drew the focus away from the better kept homes of his neighbors. Today, however, his home had never looked more inviting. He was scared shitless at what he planned to do, but if you're going to do something outrageously stupid, he thought, you may as well do it at home.

He screwed the cap off the bottle of whiskey, and swished the first mouthful around like a swig of Listerine, then spat it down the sink. Surprise, it did numb the pain a bit.

The numb feeling subsided almost immediately, and the throbbing started again with a vengeance. He took a couple quick shots, chased them with Coke, then dropped onto his futon. Once the warm liquid began to work its magic he would begin.

Soon he drank straight from the bottle, with no chaser. He felt the disconnected feeling starting with his toes, and working its way up his body. Now was the time to act, before he got to clumsy. He popped the top off the bottle of ibuprofen, and shook out three more pills, then added two more Vicodin. After retrieving two hand towels from the hall closet, Alexander decided it was time.

Sitting cross-legged on the floor he opened the toolbox. The pilers were on top, thank God his dad kept things clean and organized, he picked them up and doused them with whiskey. Then took another swallow for himself.

In his mouth, the metallic taste from the pliers brought a fresh flow of saliva, making it difficult to grab the tooth. When he finally got a grip pain shot through his jaw. Thinking it might be a good idea to help out the numbing effects of the whiskey, Alexander got a tray of ice from the freezer and filled one of the towels with the cubes. After holding the ice-pack to his jaw for a few minutes he thumped his finger over the swollen area. Dead.

Using his fingers to pull back his cheek, he slipped the pliers into his mouth again. This time he got a hold of the tooth, and the pliers promptly slipped. A second try yielded a better grip. Alexander twisted and pulled, his eyes watered, and his vision darkened. He slipped again, and caught his tongue. Blood flowed down his throat. He'd gashed it good, and a thought occurred to him—he'd already put himself through more pain than the dentist would have. He was in control of what happened. To him, this was rational, he was in command of all aspects of this mission. It was rational thinking that said the emotional pain from the lights, the sounds, the tools, of the dentist's office would be far worse. Rationality said to him, “you are not a prisoner,” as he would surely feel in the dentist's chair.

More whiskey, another Vicodin—Alex decided to change his mode of attack.

He selected a small chisel and hammer from the toolbox. Angling the blade away from his cheek as far as possible, he went to work on the tooth. The blade braced on the tooth, Alexander took a deep breath and held it, then tapped the chisel. His knees went weak, and the line between unconsciousness and reality blurred. But he'd gone this far, and considered himself committed.

A few more agonizing taps and the tooth split. He dropped the tools to the floor and fished the pliers from the back pocket of his jeans. This time he slipped the pieces of tooth from his gum easily. Blood and yellow pus flowed from the hole, this he hacked into one of the towels, and collapsed onto the futon.

A gulp of whiskey he swished and spat onto the floor, to wash and maybe sanitize his mouth, then he took the remainder of the Vicodin. Half the whiskey was gone, and Alexander was weak, nauseous and more than a little scared. He stuffed the end of one of the towels into his mouth to soak up some of the blood, and placed the ice-pack towel back over his jaw.

Within minutes the blood flow had slowed to the point of stopping, and some of the light-headedness subsided. He removed the towel from his mouth and walked into the bathroom. The reflection looking back at him from the vanity mirror wasn't him. He looked like an accident victim. What had he done to himself? Dark blue and black circles surrounded his eyes, the whites of which were becoming yellow. His jaw was swollen and misshapen, and his skin had a dusky hue; a powdery appearance. After a half walk, half crawl back to the futon, Alexander collapsed again. He rolled onto his back and groped for the whiskey bottle. In a quarter-hour the whiskey was gone, the pain was gone, and Alexander was gone.

**

From the official coroner's report, lines 13 & 14: 13.Cause of death has been determined to be liver failure due to overdose of a narcotic painkiller, hydrocodone, exacerbated by a blood-alcohol content of .383. 14.

It is the opinion of this medical examiner that prior to his death, the victim had no serious health issues, his internal organs were unremarkable and without disease. The death of Alexander Paul Schumacher will be ruled accidental, and noted as easily avoidable. END

Not a member yet?
Click here to register.

Forgotten your password?
Request a new one here.

Featured Review

NEW ANTHOLOGY

Purchase Anthology

Featured Review