PROMPT:  Write about teeth!

Teeth – by Sarah Batten

I have not been to a dentist in years.  I won’t say how long.  I ask myself why.  I have come to the conclusion that I do not go because of the dentist I was forced to go to as a child.  He was brutal.  That is the only word that springs to mind.  I felt as though I was abused by him.  I guess I was, but perhaps not in the usual way.  He was so rough; his hands were not the least bit gentle.

Dr. Dmitri and his assistants would stand over me breathing out their strong, bitter, coffee breaths.  “Hoooooow are yooooouuu todaaaaay Sarah?”  Before I could answer I experienced a sea of hands coming at me and grabbing inside my small mouth.

The sounds of that high pitched weeeeeeeee drill.  The scratching, scraping of the metal tools.

“Ah, it’s only a small one.  No need to freeze.”  What?!  I cannot describe the immense pain that followed.  The pounding through my head, my veins, my ears.


Suddenly I felt a sloppy, wet kiss on my forehead.  What was that?  What just happened?

“Good girl”, he whispered.

I was horrified.  I sunk down into the big, clunky dentist’s chair.  I could smell a combination of orange fluoride, cement, gum, coffee, body odour and cigarettes.  And now that smell was stamped on my forehead.  That horrible stench is how I imagine all dentist offices smell.

Why did I have to go that that dentist?  Because he went there.  We had to do everything he did.  His doctor.  His dentist.  His house.  His rules.

My mother’s husband.  But that is another story.  Not a teeth story.

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