Trembling With Fear 4-14-24

The Film, by David Bradley

A fleshy film grew over my teeth one day. It was a pulsing, translucent extension of my gums, criss crossed with nerves and veins. If I applied the slightest pressure, it felt like chewing broken glass.

Solid food became a thing of the past. I’d avidly consumed chicken tenders with ketchup since boyhood. At least once a week I DoorDashed them from Applebee’s. I wept knowing how much pain the chicken’s breading would put me through, now. 

Worse, I could only drink liquids within an extremely specific temperature range. A chilled Arnold Palmer had me moaning on the floor, and hot coffee made me yowl like a dog. And sure, many drinks taste fine at room temp, but even a hint of cold or heat caused pain. 

Doctors and dentists examined my mouth. Even experts in rare, oral deformities had never seen my condition before. I eventually paid for surgery to remove the film. 

It was successful for all of a month. Once the stitches came out, the film swelled back in place, more sensitive than ever. 

“We can try again,” said the surgeon. “We’ll leave the stitches in or insert a permanent retainer. That might hold the tissue back.”

I dumped the rest of my savings into a second surgery. The stitches remained in.

They held the film back for two months. 

This time, the film cut itself as it strained past the stitches. Each nick left me curled in bed, agonized for hours. Even after it regrew, the stitches provided a constant source of irritation. Between that, the failed surgeries, and my dejectedness, I struggled to even get out bed in the morning. 

A third surgery was out of the question. I had no money left and no one to borrow from. My parents were dead. My extended family knew me about as well as a stranger. My friends all worked minimum wage jobs, like me.

All this is to say, I’m tired and staring in my bathroom mirror, lips pulled back, waiting until the sight of the film disgusts me enough that I finally bite down and tear through it. 

I’ll put myself through hell tonight for single, mediocre tomorrow. I need chicken tenders and an icy Arnold Palmer. I need coffee hot enough to blister my mouth. I need to not think about pain, failure, and the pointless search long-term solutions. More than anything, I need to trick myself into believing I can be happy just for a day. I’ll survive if I can just have that.

When I stretch my mouth too wide my jaw pushes out and my teeth strain against the film. I seek this pain. If I can’t make friends with it, I won’t be able to bite down.

Veins and nerve endings flare. Before long, a constant pain hums in my mouth, more burning than sharp. My eyes water, but I’m not really crying, yet.

I prod the film with my finger. If my nail touches the film, the pain will be acute enough to buckle my knees. The pad of my finger isn’t as bad.

Tears leak, not in floods but trickles. I whimper, and in the mirror my throat muscles tense and relax, glistening with saliva. It almost feels good, like I’m creeping toward the edge of catharsis. I keep straining my jaw and pressing with the pad of my finger, never quite finding pure agony. I’m getting used to being in pain.

I don’t have to do this. It’s stupid, immature. I should at least stop and buy a painkiller.

But I’m too far along. If I have to start over, I won’t go through with it. It’ll be too taxing.

I’ve been crying, whimpering, and moaning for a while. My jaw aches from being wrenched open, and the film’s pulsations have grown more intense and rhythmic. The flesh is inflamed and red. I prod a little longer, but the pain has plateaued, and I can’t think of any other way to warm myself up.

I have to bite.

I grip the ledge of the bathroom counter. My lips ache from being curled back, and my saliva has left them pink and irritated. Three times I try to roar. Three times the roar becomes a pained moan until finally I draw a wet, choked breath and let out an actual yell.

Chicken tenders. Arnold Palmer. Hot coffee. 

I bite down, hard. You could compare the pain to a slap, a cannonball, the tsar bomb, but no simile encapsulates agony so massive. The sound I make is closer to a wounded dog than a human. My knees give. Blood thicker than oil floods my mouth.

But I bite down, again, grinding my teeth, shredding flesh, vein, and nerve. Pain spears my head, down my neck, into my chest. Another bite, and it chews through my stomach and testicles.

“Chicken tenders!” I scream. “Arnold Palmer! Coffee!”

My vision tunnels. I collapse on my side for God knows how long, bleeding, drooling, and leaking snot. Threads and chunks still cling to my teeth and gums. 

Soon, the film will regrow, and I may despise myself for doing this. But I must convince myself that that future me is a different person. Who I am right now lives only in this moment. Tomorrow, my teeth will break nothing but well-fried breading, and ketchup will snuff the taste of blood. By the end of the night, I will pass out, bloated, laughing, and aching for more.