Screaming Faces

Michael Futrell

It has been years since my last episode; the medicine worked wonders. I no longer hear voices or see things that aren't there. But now, ever since I was let go from my job as a butcher, my medicine is no longer covered under my health insurance. Now, I am forced to ration my meds to the point where, from time to time, I will have small episodes, such as hearing whispers and seeing figures out of the corner of my eye.

I know these figures are not real, but they seem so real, so very real. Every day, the episodes grow worse. Due to rationing my pills, the whispering has now turned into shouting. I fear I will soon begin to see things.

This morning, as I took my daily walk through the woods near my house, I heard my name being called, "Frank, Frank." I looked around, startled. The voice was one I could not recognize—one I had never heard before. As I looked around, I spotted a stray dog. I glanced at the dog, and it began to talk to me, calling my name.

"Frank, you can finally hear me! I notice you on your walks all the time, and you pet me and rub me as you walk by. I was wondering, could I live with you?"

Ignore the dog; just ignore it. I knew it was not real; yes, I knew it was physically there. I saw the dog every morning on my walks, and I indeed rubbed it and played with it, but there was no way it could actually talk.

Still, the dog followed me throughout my walk, as he usually did. This time, he was talking instead of barking. It was eerie and unnatural. It annoyed me, because I knew it was not real. There was no way it could possibly be, but, as I continued to walk, the dog continued to talk. "Frank, why are you ignoring me, Frank? I know you can hear me this time; I can see it in your eyes, Frank. It's cold out here, Frank. Can I stay with you, please?"

Even on my way back home, the dog still talked. It started to irritate me to no end. I knew the talking was a hallucination, even though I saw his lips move with each passing word.

I finally snapped as I neared my house. I began to yell at the dog, reminding him he was not really talking to me, that he was some regular old mutt, and that I was just hearing things because I do not have my meds. His feeble attempts gave me a good chuckle, though. I don't know what I expected out of yelling at the dog. I guess I was hoping that, if the dog knew that I knew it was a hallucination, then it would stop. Or maybe I was trying to keep myself from believing that the dog was talking.

Nonetheless, the dog responded, "Oh Frank, you can be so cruel. I walk with you every morning. I

Screaming Faces

Michael Futrell

protect you every time on our walks from wild squirrels and pesky rabbits, and you give me love and sweet belly rubs. Why would I ever lie to you, Frank? I love you."

I began shouting "Shut up!" repeatedly while putting my hands on my ears. "There is no way I can believe this! No way it can be real!" "Oh, but it is, Frank. Do you not realize how special you are? You can hear us, Frank; you can hear me and other things talk now. You have always been able to. You were just lied to by those nasty doctors and fed pills to suppress your gift due to their fear." "What do you mean, us?" I responded angrily to the dog. "I mean, you can talk to everything now: the trees, the animals, and even yourself."

I have to admit that the dog was rather convincing, but all my doubts were squashed the next morning.

I awoke to the sound of muffled screaming. I thought it was the dog, whom I let sleep at the foot of my bed, but, glancing at the dog, I noticed he was still asleep. Then I felt squirming and thrashing in my mouth. I ran to the bathroom to look at my mouth, and, when I opened it, all I saw were dozens of white faces screaming to be freed. My teeth were yelling to be freed. They wanted to run and be let loose; I nearly fainted at the sight of them all fighting and crashing into one another to break free from my mouth.

I ignored their screams as I set about brushing my teeth; they hated that. They began swearing and thrashing even harder, but still I ignored them. Throughout the day, my teeth refused to be quiet, demanding freedom. Every time I tried to open my mouth to eat, my teeth would push the food away, and, at night, they kept me up with their demands and cries. The dog could hear them, too. "Frank, why don't you let them go, huh? Let them be free like us, Frank." "I am not letting them free. They are just hallucinations like you and your words," I responded in anger to the dog. "Now, Frank, if you really believed we were just hallucinations, then why did you let me come live with you when you never did before?"

I was stunned at this. The dog was right; I did believe him. Otherwise, I wouldn't have let him in to begin with. He was right. I was special. I have a gift, a gift to speak and see objects and their true selves and listen to their demands. I marched into the bathroom and opened my mouth to look at the helpless souls stuck in the gums of my mouth. It must be unfair to live a life stuck inside someone's mouth. No wonder they would want their freedom. I brought out a pair of pliers from my toolbox and raised them high. The teeth began to cheer as they saw them. They knew what was coming next: their freedom.

I put the pliers on one of my teeth, gripped it tightly, and began to pull. It hurt, but it needed to be done. The teeth cheered me on, empowering me as I tugged and tugged. I began to hear the popping

Screaming Faces

Michael Futrell

and tearing of my gums and nerve endings as they were twisted into a bloody, stringy mess. The pain was excruciating, but I began to fall into a feverish rhythm.

Pull. Wiggle. Yank. Pull. Wiggle. Yank. Pull. Wiggle. Yank.

Hours passed before I was able to free every last one of my teeth. I gazed into the mirror, my mouth a bloody mess of exposed nerves and mutilated gums. The sink before me was filled with tissue floating in a bloody pond.

I was enjoying the sweet sound of silence before the screaming returned—sounding close by. I looked into the mirror and saw each pimple on my face screaming to be free. I laughed with tears of joy at the thought of having more friends to make free. I picked up my old butcher tools and began to cut.