I hate the dentist.

Maybe it's the way my heart races in the reception as I kick my feet anxiously.

Or the way the receptionist sarcastically and drolly calls outs my name, struggling to pronounce it, as if anticipating the torture I'm about to receive.

The dentist is ready to see you now.

Or the slow, eerie walk down the dark corridor to his room.

The bright, synthetic, intoxicating white lights piercing my existence as I enter his theatre.

The cool, calculated gesticulation to the chair I am to sit in.

My anxious, meek hello.

His austere sit.

The way I feel so small in the synthetic leather chair.

The arm, wrist and chest straps and buckles he uses to fasten me in place when my panic attack comes on and I try to escape.

Ah ah ah. That's tight enough, isn't it? You're not going anywhere now, are you?

The solemn final gulp before I am told to open wide.

And the cold sensation of the stainless steel dental gag in my mouth, prizing my jaw open when I'm told I am not opening wide enough.

The skin-crawling noise of the scaler as he examines my teeth.

Tut-tut-tut.

Ggggaaaaaappppssshhh.

The way my eyes go cross-eyed as they follow the dental mirror into my exposed oral cavity, and I gag and squirm against the restraints as he probes the device deep inside my mouth, just to watch me gag.

Much further than last time.

Almost panting as I stick out my tongue upon command and he shines a torch inside my mouth. He might even be able to see my soul.

The thick tendrils of saliva that hang from his latex gloved fingers after he has probed and explored my mouth.

He hasn't even yet gotten started.

And when I leave, I hope the next 6 months pass quickly.

I appreciate this is an exceptionally weird post, but feel free to message me if the above strikes a chord with you, to either chat about it or continue the scene!