Some tortures are physical

And some are mental

But the one that is both

Is dental

-

Ogden Nash

 

 

 

 

Happiness is your dentist telling you

it won't hurt and then having him catch

his hand in the drill.

-
Johnny Carson 

 

 

 

Prolog

 

Wet hands were a sign of fear. No matter if realistic or unrealistic fear, the hands were all the time wet. You start to clench your hands to fists, hope you can relax, relief pressure, lose some of the tensions, that built up inside you. Like a volcano when the time of an eruption was close. Most times these things didn't help at all, didn't make you feel better, especially not when the fear had realistic reasons. And in this case it was very realistic. Caught on a chair, no way out, like an animal in the trap of a hunter, knowing the perpetrator was on his way to get you.

A few more steps, you hear him coming. No matter how hard you swallow, the lump in your throat was there and didn't go away. Your hands got more wet, how many times did you wipe off your hands on your jeans? Did your jeans have traces of the sweat on your palms already? Cold sweat you had for a very good reason.

The door got opened, some words were exchanged. Words, you could hear, but they never reached your mind. You answered them automatically anyway. He was there, in front of the door, blocking your only escape exit. He was here, this was his game now. He was here and the little hope you had before, that maybe, just maybe, things weren't getting this bad, died with every second you saw him. Step by step it died. Like yourself. He didn't have to put his hands on you, your fear was enough, it let you die slowly.

The sound of gloves pulling over hands for protection made you flinch. It was starting to get serious, he was ready to torture you, let you suffer. And he'd do it with gusto, enjoy every second of it. After all, it was what he was getting paid for. Earn your money by torturing other people, who never did anything wrong, never harmed you. He got money to make while you fear for your life, wish you were already dead. All those pain, indescribable pain, that was about to come. The smile in his face, so sweet and innocent, like butter couldn't melt in his mouth. And he looked so happy, like he was ready to do something wonderful for you. Something wonderful like torture people, torture you, being aware you had suffered from fear and panic, which meant there was no way to get around the pain. He would never let you go now that he had you right here in his hands.

Slowly the chair you were in was lowered, a long sharp object got close to your eyes. Silver, stainless, with a hook, shiny like the hook of Captain Hook's hand. Were you Peter Pan? It reminded you of a oversized fishing-hook. Maybe you were a fish. Nemo? And he found you. Your hands felt like there was a wild river on them, it was almost impossible for you to swallow and your heart was beating like you ran a marathon. Probably he could see your heart beating. It beat up high out of your shirt, like in a cartoon, caught by the jumper you wore, but it must be visible for everybody. Did he enjoy your fear a lot? Did it make him happy? Did it turn him on?

Why was here nothing you could grab and hold on to. When you have to get yourself at risk, had to life with pain, had no chance to escape, why was there nothing here, that could make things better for you. Easier. Like a bottle of whiskey? A dozen of pain killer pills.

Close your eyes, closed eyes was one of the few things you could do, you had some control over. Even when you had no control over the tears, that were about to come out of your eyes, no matter what. So you close your eyes and got ready for what was about to come. Ready for the huge shiny fishing-hook or any other different torturing tool, that would get into your body.

Probably it was the best to accept your life was over and the only thing you could do was to die with dignity.