This chapter contains the following trigger warnings:

Detailed dentistry (including the use of syringes, drills, and anesthetics)
Intrusive thoughts about syringes and eyes
Intrusive thoughts about dental drills and gore
Descriptions of eye and mouth gore
Religious delusions

“You’re back quickly,” Machiavelli started, “What’s wrong?”

Mr. Limbus hung a long coat on the rack next to the door. The radio already poured out a string of melodies as he walked in. His eyebrows knit together a series of wrinkles as he looked upon Machiavelli, who did not shrink back at his intensity.

“What’s wrong…” Mr. Limbus groaned, putting his head in his hands, “My teeth have been hurting like… well, pardon my language, but like hell. The ones near the back, not the molars. Ones before those.”

Machiavelli pushed the man away when he tried to open his mouth to show him the teeth. “Fill out some paperwork first, then I’ll take a look at you.”

Mr. Limbus frowned but took the papers and the clipboard regardless. There were less parts to fill out this time–the majority of the last visit’s work had been to establish him as a client. He scribbled down information on the paper, grimacing as he wrote. His mouth itched. A couple times, his left hand reached up to scratch the inside of his mouth. Not enough to make anything bleed–Machiavelli told him off when the scratching persisted for more than a minute–but still a distinct, almost cartoonish expression of discomfort. He placed the papers on Machiavelli’s desk with a flourish.

“Alright,” the doctor sighed, “Follow me.”

The two returned to the room where Mr. Limbus had waited only a handful of days ago. The sun hid behind the clouds again despite the early hours. Machiavelli flicked on the cold overhead lights and gestured to the chair as he pulled on his coat, gloves, and mask. The motions brought a sense of deja vu over the patient, but urgency and alarm tried to cover his prior fears. Should he have gone somewhere else? Mr. Limbus sat down and opened his mouth. He clasped his hands together in his lap.

“Patience,” Machiavelli said, one of his fingers accidentally ripping through the disposable glove, “is a virtue, my friend.”

Mr. Limbus closed his mouth, but swiveled his head to watch the doctor try another set of gloves. The material made sharp angles out of his knuckles. Machiavelli turned to Mr. Limbus, pulling his cart of instruments to his side. The doctor grabbed the mouth mirror and sickle probe in one hand and pulled the dental bib over his client with the other. The normal fluidity of Machiavelli’s motions was undercut by an unusual chill coursing through him. He focused his attention on Mr. Limbus.

“When did the pain start?” The doctor asked. It couldn’t have been long.

“A day after I saw you last. Did you do something to me?”

“I cleaned your teeth,” Machiavelli said curtly, “Open your mouth.”

Mr. Limbus stretched his jaw wide again and raised one hand as if to point at a certain spot. Machiavelli pushed his hand away.

“I will look. Have patience,” He said.

Mr. Limbus’ face went ever so slightly pale, as opposed to the redness he had accumulated in his nervous desire to be seen by Machiavelli. The doctor lowered his mouth mirror into Mr. Limbus’ mouth, and so began again the motions of dentistry. The sickle probe quickly joined its partner. It scratched at the gaps between the teeth, revealing very little in the process–Mr. Limbus had brushed, of course. Machiavelli could still smell the sharp mint of his toothpaste, quietly distinct from the smells of mint-flavored gum or ice cream. Not even the common stench of a mostly-obscured digestive system cut through the smell.

Machiavelli pulled himself upright, realizing how close he was to his client’s mouth. He had been hovering over it, almost ignoring the mouth mirror. His own mouth stung with something he couldn’t place. With a frown underneath his mask, Machiavelli continued searching. Near the back, Mr. Limbus had said. The doctor unconsciously leaned forward again.

The premolars. On the left side of the lower jaw, one tooth had a formation of dark material cutting through the top part of the enamel. The darkness spilled onto the tooth next to it–the second bicuspid–and bore a similarly darkened hole in the enamel and dentin, revealing a previously well-hidden part of the first molar. Machiavelli twisted his mouth mirror upward. The upper jaw faced similar damages, as if the decay had rubbed onto more teeth by Mr. Limbus chewing something. It wasn’t that simple, of course, but the mirror-like quality of the decay did make Machiavelli’s eyes flicker between the upper and lower premolars, comparing them. 

He checked the other side. No damage yet. A smearing of fuzzy plague reached up from the molars and covered the premolars, setting the stage for another cavity. Machiavelli pulled away from Mr. Limbus.

“You can close your mouth now,” he said, sorting through his cart. He wrote down notes on a mostly empty paper of Mr. Limbus’ dental history. Mr. Limbus happily obliged only for a second.

“Well?” Mr. Limbus said, “What did you find?”

“Some cavities. They’ll need fillings,” Machiavelli shuffled to find a paper detailing prices for his services, and offered it to his client. “I can do that today if you–”

“I brush every day, and you cleaned my teeth just the other morning!” Mr. Limbus exclaimed, “How on earth do I have cavities?”

“It happens easier as you age. Certain foods can stick to your teeth as well, though it is indeed odd that such intense cavities developed so fast.”

“Did you make a mistake while cleaning them…?”

“There was that absence…” Machiavelli stared elsewhere, “I apologize once more. I’ll try to reduce the cost of filling since my absence may have influenced the decay.”

“May have…” Mr. Limbus grumbled, “Might as well do the fillings while I’m here. Let me call my wife to let her know…”

“Of course. The filling should take less than an hour,” Machiavelli stepped out of the room to give him some privacy. He could still hear Mr. Limbus speaking, but what was he going to do about it? Machiavelli reasoned that barely any value could be gained from telling anyone about Mr. Limbus’ words of annoyance and his own embarrassment.

Besides, Malin was standing in the front office.

“...Do you need something?” Machiavelli asked.

“There you are,” Malin always had his hand over his mouth, a makeshift muzzle, “I heard yelling, so I wanted to check up on you.”

“It happens,” The doctor said, “People get unhappy about prices and procedures. You should go back upstairs.”

Malin looked over Machiavelli’s shoulder and into the dental office. The doctor moved to block him, a sudden defense. Mr. Limbus was saying goodbye.

“Aren’t you still tired?” said Machiavelli, resuming the cold tone he reserved for his clients, “Go back upstairs and let me work. I would offer you a book or something similar, but I don’t have the time. Maybe pick up something from the coffee table if you wish.”

Malin stepped back, shaking his head. “Tell me all about your work when you’re done. You’ll surely have a story by then.”

Machiavelli said nothing as Malin returned upstairs. Why was there a look of expectancy in his eye? What story could an ordinary procedure bring? They were still strangers, he reminded himself. They hadn’t been together long. But he had been so jovial and had felt some remnant of intrigue at the man’s eccentric stories. Any emotion after a period of dullness awoke the doctor’s body like a bullet narrowly missing his head. He sighed. Machiavelli tucked his hair behind his ear and returned to Mr. Limbus’ side just as the man pocketed his phone.

“Are you ready?” The doctor asked.

“As much as I can be…” Mr. Limbus sighed, but sat back in the dental chair.

“I appreciate your confidence. I’ll make this painless and quick. I just talked to my guest, so we should not be interrupted.” Machiavelli nodded to Mr. Limbus before approaching one of the medicine cabinets on the wall. He unlocked the handle. Gels, syringes, cotton swabs, and a multitude of anesthetics lined the shelves like rows of soldiers. A thin layer of dust covered some of the bottles, which Machiavelli brushed off as he selected some benzocaine gel, liquid lidocaine, and a container of swabs. Afterwards, he selected a clean syringe from the bottom layer of the cart and brought it to the top. The thin tip glimmered in the light as Machiavelli examined it. An uneasy sight for him, even after all of these years. Perhaps because of all these years.