She
is hungry, having eaten nothing since the slice of toast that constituted last
night’s supper, as instructed.
A
reminder of the world outside this dentist’s room without windows, the bib
around her neck is printed with the image of white clouds upon blue sky and
made from rubber or some strain of pliant plastic. It is held in place by way
of two skinny gooseneck limbs extending from just below the chair’s headrest
which end in clips hooking into the bib’s corresponding two holes at either
side and defined by metal eyelets. ache1 before she became ache1
realises that if she tries to escape, or leans too far forward, or simply rises
too abruptly from the chair this device will rip through her neck and her head
will tumble to the floor. She imagines her decapitated face staring up at the
dentist and her father as the former fits a small clear green cup over her nose
and mouth, hearing him tell her to count the whistle sounds that each of her
exhalations will produce, and to let him know when she gets to ten.
By
the count of three the room has turned black and she is speeding towards a
large mirror image of herself, only the surface of the glass is soft and her
arms and legs are absorbed in their own seated reflections until she seems to
have passed through herself and this image is accelerating off behind her at a
pace relative to her own forward rush. She turns her head to see that the
shrinking reflection has not separated from her, that they are joined
back-to-back with a stretch of flesh that is rapidly thinning to a point where
it must snap.
She
panics, shouting
ache1
before she became ache1: MOZZARELLAAAAAAA
as
the stretching reaches its absolute capacity, holds momentarily yet enough for
her to recognise a sensation of whiplash and then suddenly she and her
reflected self are in a tearing blur back towards each other. She experiences
panic in the instant knowledge that her reflection is now a solid thing, a
thing with weight and density that is unavoidably approaching her from behind
and at speed.
She
moans, drums her fingers upon the armrests.
cog
(laughing): You’re quite a singer, aren’t you?
and
then to her dad
cog:
She’s coming round now.
Father:
Is she okay? She’s
cog:
Oh yes, yeah yeah. People don’t usually, you know. Sometimes the smaller kids
come out of it crying, but... no, she’s fine.
Father
(taking her hand): Hey
and
then rubbing her bare forearm.
Father:
Hey hey. You’re okay. That’s it done now, that’s it all over now. Come on,
you’re okay now.
He
leaves her to sign his name across the dotted lines of documents he only
skim-reads, quickly putting his name where the assistant has marked little
crosses, the top of each of these looped where the pen has dragged upon the
paper.
He
comforts his daughter as she finally rises from the chair, the cotton wool
packing her mouth is livid with wet redness when she removes it to say
ache1
before she became ache1: Daddy I’m going to be sick
and
again as they descend the stairs
ache1
before she became ache1: Daddy I’m going to be sick.
Father:
There there, come on now. You’re okay, come on
holding
open the door out onto the street.
She
breathes in the city’s air, drops to her knees and vomits out whatever is still
remnant in her little belly.
