The young man stands in the mirror, straightening his tie with clammy hands and clumsy fingers.
His father appears in the bathroom doorway, tightlipped as he studies his son.
“Did you brush your teeth?” the father asks.
“Not yet,” the young man replies.
“Go on then.”
The son does as he’s told, bringing a brush full of toothpaste into his mouth.
“No, no. Not like that,” the father scolds as he continues to watch. “Circular motions.”
Lost, the young man shakes his head. “Show me?”
The father stares at his son. He does not smile. Instead, he sighs, taking a retreating step. “I cannot,” he says. “You must figure it out for yourself.”
He leaves, disappearing down the hallway. The young man turns back to his reflection, deciding his brushing was good enough.
He spits and then smiles. White teeth and pink gums smile back at him.
Fresh and ready for his first day of work.
So he works. He works for weeks. He works for months. He works beyond a year.
He drags himself home one evening, delivering himself on the couch in an exhausted heap. His father sits reading a paper in the armchair across from him.
“What’s wrong with you?” the father asks.
“Tired.”
“Why?”
“They have me working nine-hour shifts.”
“So?”
The young man glances at his father, furrowing his brow. “So? So I’m tired.”
His father’s eyes snap to meet his son’s, deep lines creasing his forehead. “That’s your job,” he presses, a lisp meeting his words as he tucks in his lip. “So stop complaining.”
The young man’s stomach drops, his lips parting with sadness.
But the father returns to his paper, moving on.
“Just go brush your teeth.”
The young man does as he’s told, walking on tired limbs to the bathroom. He brushes, he spits.
He freezes.
Blood.
Not much, but there are hints of blood in his spit. Splattered across the bowl.
He examines his mouth, checking for any cuts in his gums.
Nothing.
He walks back to the living room and stops.
“There’s blood in my spit,” he tells his father.
His father turns the page of his paper and nods.
“Good.”
Good, the young man thinks. Good. He thinks this as he works more weeks. More months. He thinks this as he changes jobs, one that requires him to work less hours.
“But the boss,” the young man tells his father over dinner. “He yells at me all the time.”
“That’s just how it is,” his father says, eating a spoonful of soup. “Now, go brush your teeth.”
The young man stands from the table, his shoulders rolled forward. He goes to the bathroom and brings his toothbrush to his teeth. But he hisses at the prick of the bristles, throwing the brush into the sink. Tears line his eyes as he checks in the mirror, lifting his upper lip to reveal the state of his gums.
Bruised, tender.
“What’s wrong?” his father calls as he hears the young man hum in pain.
“My gums,” the young man whimpers.
“Ah,” the father says. “A small price to pay.”
A small price to pay. Even as the young man’s mouth remains swollen day by day. His father won’t listen, so he tells his boss of his pain.
“Great work,” the boss praises, and he gives him a raise.
However, in return for the raise, the boss expects a piece of the young man’s gums. A piece placed on the boss’s desk every day. The young man sets them down as if they’re a peace offering, forcing a smile as he quickly wipes away blood trying to dribble from his chin.
The same smile he wears when he meets a girl at a cafe, thankful that she stares at his eyes instead of his aching teeth. The same smile he wears when they exchange vows and she helps him numb the pain.
He’s numb for days. For weeks.
But then his boss lays him off, reaching toward the young man’s gums and ripping off one last piece.
The young man retreats, desperately trying to nurse his wounds as blood drips into his sink.
“Move on,” his father says when he learns of the news. “You’re the man of the house now. No time to lose.”
No time to lose. The young man goes on, hiding away his broken gums as he searches for jobs. His smile quivers as he manages to show them just the tips of his teeth, swallowing blood down his throat.
Days go by. Then weeks. And then months.
Still, the boy finds nothing, and he’s running out of time. He’s scared, beginning to look everywhere and becoming desperate.
He begins sending teeth as a plea to be hired. And then he sends them to just get an interview. For a job he really wants, he gives them three teeth and they agree to meet.
“Thank you,” he says as he sits down at the desk, flashing a relieved smile. But the interviewer recoils, staring down at his mouth. At the only six teeth that remain.
“I’m sorry,” the interviewer says. “We’re looking for someone with more to offer.”
Again, the young man wants to plead. Look how much he’s already given! He even gave you three teeth!
But the interviewer already ushers him out, wincing away as the young man shuffles through the door. He continues that shuffle, his head hanging toward the pavement as he goes to the train. As he rides it home, his phone rings with a call from his father.
“Well?” the man asks.
“I didn’t get it,” the young man mumbles, head still down.
“Keep going then,” his father insists.
To this, the young man swallows. “But I’m so tired.” He closes his eyes, waiting for his father’s sigh.
However, the man hums, as if in understanding. “Ah, yes. You’re in a tricky spot,” he says, making the young man’s head raise.
“Yeah…Yeah , I am,” he says, nodding.
“I know,” his father says. “If I was in your position -“
The young man’s breath catches. He waits.
“I’d probably kill myself.”
The young man’s lips fall open, blood spilling out through his remaining teeth. He can feel heat rising to his ears, numbing them until it slides down the rest of his body. All but his gums. Those pound harder and harder in pain.
I’d probably…
The young man gets off the train and goes home to his apartment. As he lets himself inside it’s dark, quiet. His wife is in bed. Or at least he thinks she is. He’s too focused on going into the kitchen and grabbing a butcher knife from the drawer. He then raises it.
And stabs it straight into his gums.
……
The young man’s head is heavy as he awakens in a room. He hears beeping, studies the white walls with his lazy vision. Glancing down his chest, he sees his gown, the IV sticking into his veins.
It all starts coming back to him.
His hands fly up to his mouth, feeling his gums and the countless stitches that stretch in multiple directions. All of his teeth are gone.
His fingers begin to tremble, his lip quivering. His throat bobs as tears begin to escape the corner of his eyes.
A laugh comes from his side, startling him to look over. There sits his father, wearing a close-lipped smile.
“My teeth,” the young man whispers.
The father nods. “I know.”
Again, the boy shakes, tears flooding from his eyes now as he chokes on a sob.
“Why?” he pleads. “Why would you tell me to do this?”
Again, the father laughs. But this time, his lips pull back in a smile.
One without teeth.
“Because if I had to do it then so do you.”