From a Scar Lightly
In the bathroom the light buzzed and the water was pink and the pliers were in the sink because it was Jenny's practice, on weekends, to address with whatever the junk drawer offered those problems of the body that could not afford to wait for money she did not have. One might call it self-reliance, if self-reliance did not end with holding a piece of your own skull.
The thing about pulling teeth is the root doesn't want to leave. Sure, the crown comes clean, but the root goes deep, anchored in bone that is very sincere about its job.
Which is the only sincere thing left inside me, she thought as she clamped the needle-nose pliers past the gum line, pulled, and stifled a scream.
The root gave out wearing a sleeve of her gum tissue, this pink-grey, wet, flag of flesh waving hello saying, "Pleased to meet you. I used to be the inside of your face."
In the next room her son laughed in unison with a laugh track from the TV. The way seven-year-olds laugh, with his entire diaphragm, like every joke is the funniest thing that's ever happened in the history of him having a body.
She spit into the dirt.
Gone were the pliers, the junk drawer next to the batteries and the takeout menus, and the screwdriver that didn't fit anything in the house. The house. Her son's laughter. All of it. Gone.
The Bathroom Mirror Remembers Everything
By Deathjellie
She stopped looking at herself three weeks ago. The reflection didn't stop looking back. Every morning it pressed closer to the glass, and every morning the glass felt warmer.
The optometrist said her eyes were fine. The therapist said it was stress. Her mother said mirrors don't do that. But her mother hadn't stood in front of this one at 3 AM when the reflection smiled first.
This week, don't answer any door you didn't lock yourself. Don't look too long at still water.
I finally taught my dog to fetch. He brought back a hand that was still warm.