novocaine

The family van rolls into the empty parking lot of a nondescript office building at dusk. My parents lead me by the arms through the abandoned lobby to a door with light underneath. Inside, a man with a white moustache wears a lab coat and a plastic smile. He has been expecting us. He shows us a photo projected on the wall in vivid colors: a gaping mouth with an ugly pink mass where teeth should be. My parents nod seriously as he gestures and gives vague explanations then invites them to wait in the lobby. They exit without a word. He leads me into a too-large room with a lone dental chair in the center under a pale spotlight. He shuts the door and locks it. Have a seat. The sky stands bloodied behind veiny tree limbs outside the sole window. A young bleach-blonde assistant enters and seals the door and parts red lips, flashing a smile and inserting a long syringe into my gums. I grab her wrist and resist, but she removes a chunk of flesh as a sample. I sob and apologize for resisting. She smiles sweetly. It's okay; just relax. She does not know what she is doing. The man hastily shoves an IV into my forearm then scurries down a trap door. A green liquid crawls down the tube and through the needle. From below, a machine rumbles to life. Everything vibrates; I'm feeling dizzy. How long should this take? The assistant pretends not to hear me. She approaches with two more IVs, sliding one into my palm and the other beneath my fingernail. My hand convulses, and the room begins to rotate. On the edge of my vision, I see trays lined with gleaming blades. The assistant runs sharp fingernails through my hair and whispers in my ear, Everything is fine. This is not the end, not the end. The man reappears with a long clear tube attached to a pump. My gums are throbbing but painless now. Everything else is numbing, fading, a cold tube slithers down my throat, and the spotlight above intensifies until there's nothing left. My parents are gone. They have abandoned me. This is the end.