Your dentist peers into your mouth and sees your soul sprouting out.
You’d been putting off visiting for twenty years, since a violent childhood experience. But the root beneath the gaping hole in your lower left molar started to throb even worse than suppressed emotion.
“There’s something growing in this cavity,” says the dentist. She prods deep into the tooth and removes a mushroom. From the top of your upside-down vision, you see her put it in her mouth.
“Hmmm…” she says, nibbling. “Tastes like compulsion for self-destruction. Hmmm… and a fear of failure.”
A mouldy infestation has turned the wall in your box room into papier mâché. You only plucked up the impetus to call the landlord about it when the smell went from bad to really bad.
The landlord puts his arm clean through it. A clown emerges and splats a custard pie in his face.
My landlord licks the cream off his lips and narrows his eyes at you. Then he tells you about every time you were abandoned.
Sarah was your soulmate, but you hadn’t seen her in ten years. Most of your childhood friends are at her funeral. You feel all their eyes on you the whole time, crawling on your skin.
“Nice to know you’re alive,” says more than one person to you. “Would be nice if you ever answered our messages.”
Bats flutter out of the coffin and start laying out the sandwiches for the wake.
You make sure you leave before anyone starts eating them.