the series of r/nosleep | volume one: the {smile} series

{F}eed

My face goes white. I can hear the blood crawl to a halt in my ears. I can see Max shaking his head no like an idiot child. Yes you have!, I think, hoping Max somehow learned to read minds in the last few beers.

"Well," the man continues. Is he looking at me or Max?, I wonder. The mirror is too dirty to be sure. "Over off of high street there is the oldest tiny house on top of the oldest tiniest hill that has been turned into one-person dental office operated by the oldest tiniest man, Dr Brookstone."

The name makes my skin crawl.

"Dr Brookstone, being the only dentist in this wonderful city as you may know, keeps a rather tight schedule. Why, I was just there today wedged between last night's Homecoming Queen, and Mrs Gladwin and her new husband."

Today, I think, and my hand goes to my hip.

"Yes, today," the man repeats. He's definitely looking at me this time. Staring at me through a coat of dust on a cracked mirror. "When the little Homecoming Queen finished, rubbing her sore jaw and throat on her way out, I went into Dr Brookstone's quaint little office and sat in his chair. And do you know what he asked me?"

"What?" Max asked eagerly. I wanted to slap him.

"He asked me if I wanted nitrous oxide. Laughing gas! Good guy, am I right?" The man laughs, but the smile doesn't reach his eyes that bore into me from the mirror.

"Max," I whisper. "Max, maybe it's time for us to go!" I put a hand on his shoulder trying to turn him.

"Fuck off, Georgie," he says and shakes off my hand. "Can't you see this man is tryin' to tell us a story?"

"I of course said no; I'm not really into inebriations," the man continues, and as if to punctuate the statement Sammy reached over and filled the man's glass up with more water. "But, shit, who am I to judge the indulgences of others?" He takes a drink of his water and scratches soap residue off the the side of the glass with a well-manicured thumbnail. His eyes never leave me.

"Is there a point to this story, pal?" I ask.

That smile again. "Of course, Georgie. I was just getting there. See, I had my teeth cleaned, and I won't bore you with those details - "

"Thanks," I interrupt.

"But, what happened next is where the meat of the story resides."

I know what happens next, you bastard, I think. What do YOU have to do with it?

"After me was Mrs Gladwin. Lovely lady. I got to speak with her for just a moment before my appointment. Did you know she was just married last weekend?"

Yes, I did, I think.

"Well, what happens next is all a guess, but as it turns out -"

Blood. Everywhere there's blood. Not pools of it like I'm used to seeing in gunshot vics or stabbings, but sprays and fountains. My son would say it looks like somebody went crazy with a red paintball gun; not that I'd ever let him come to a crime scene with me. I can get passed the blood, I mean, we're all just thin meat sacs holding in gallons of liquid, but for some reason this scene...

Maybe it's the contrast of colors. The sterile room with its white furnishing and steel tools varnished in a thick coat of crimson coagulant. The pieces of filleted skin tossed about like meaty confetti. A half-digested thumb swimming in crusted bile on top of her engorged belly. Dr Brookstone crumbled beneath the reclined chair, his fleshless arm stretched out across his lap, strips of muscle pulled away like a spit-roasted lamb; some still caught between the teeth of the extracting forceps in his other hand. He's smiling, moth agape and drooling blood. Four of his front teeth are missing.

Mrs Gladwin lays on top of the chair. Under the harsh crane light her features are washed out in blaring white. Her eyes are rolled to the back of her head. Her mouth is stretched open with a large metal lip retractor, and her chin is draped in dried blood and bile. Slivers of the meat confetti line her cheeks and neck and hang down into her mouth.

I can feel my head go loopy and see the large green tank in the corner of the room. The nozzle is broken and giving off a near silent hiss sound. I clear the room and have the officers close and secure the door. We huddle in the outside room waiting for the men in masks to remove the gas. Mrs Gladwin's husband sits in a corner screaming until his throat tears.

"What did he say?" the man asks.

It takes me a full minute to realize he's talking to me. "Huh?" I say to the mirror.

"What did Mr Gladwin say?"

"I think the dentist fed my wife," I mumble. I feel nauseous. Butterflies or moths are dancing in my stomach. Max is still staring stupidly at the man.

"Is that how she died? By being overfed?"

The way he says it, so calmly, so matter-of-factly like this is a conversation he's had a thousand times before, makes my head spin. I try to look at him, to figure out who the hell this guy is, but his face is hazy in the mirror.

"Well?" he asks again.

"No, she didn't die from being overfed," I say. "Well, maybe in a way she did. She choked."

"Ah," he says and takes another drink of his water.

I don't know why, but I continue. "She choked on his tongue."

I vomit. Regurgitated beers, peanuts, and pie spill out over the bar floor. Sammy rushes over to check on me and I wave him away. I heave three more times until my stomach is empty and then ask for a towel. "I'm sorry," I say to the large barkeep. "I'll clean it up."

"Okay, Georgie," he says with a worried grin.

I turn my head to the left and Max is looking at me, his head cocked, and an evil grin spreads across his face. "I told you the moths would get you!" He laughs.

"It wasn't the moths, asshole," I say and wipe my mouth. "It was - "

I look over his shoulder and the other man is gone.