‘You’d be a great candidate for Invisalign,’ chirps the new dentist, and this takes me by surprise. The part about the wear on my molars, I knew. The stress to which I’ve been subjecting my perma-clenched jaws. But it’s the first time I’ve heard this recommendation, based on my ‘deep bite’. Something is changing for the worse.
The receptionist runs the estimate, hands it over with a perceptible wince. I choke at the sight of the out-of-pocket cost: $5000 with my useless, toothless insurance. I sign a form acknowledging my understanding of the unattainable. My condemnation to the dentition of my grandmothers. My mother, with a premolar gap she can’t afford to fill.
My hands shake as I sign. There’s a pounding in my ears, and when I briefly close my eyes, my vision is a warm, inviting, arterial red. No. No. I muzzle the instinct to lunge at the innocent receptionist. She smiles sadly, deaf to the shredding of my inner skin. I leave before the bones pop and the howling rage begins. It requires no moon.
I find a solitary place to writhe. Eventually, my mayhem unspent, despair comes to smooth down all the bristles, grind down all the points. A rabbit rustles in pouncing distance. Finches flit within my swipe. Aware that my prey is something other – and elusive enough to drive one mad.
The throat that matches my bite spans multitudes. And not knowing where to begin, I starve.
A little something different to amuse my Cool Cousin on his birthday; as he knows, I get my bite from more than my mother’s side.
Wolf image by Sandra Peterson via Pixabay