I found a note in a book today. It said THEY BROKE MY TEETH, and then there were six names.
I remember writing that. I had toothache, so bad I thought my head would split. It hurt all the way down my neck, and in my ear. I’d have gone to the dentist, but I had no money, so I settled for naming my killers. Had I died, I mean. You can, you know—die of toothache. You can get an abscess, and it can go in your brain, and that’s the end of you. Or you can get meningitis. You can die.
I didn’t, of course. Die, I mean. I waited and suffered, and my toothache went away. And I was reading Black Swan Green, and I used my murder note as a bookmark.
Hey, there’s some old guy across the street, using his walker as a chair. It’s got a canvas sling in it, so he can sit and rest. There’s a wee patch of lawn, and he’s sitting and reading. Oh, and now he’s getting up, and going in to play some billiards. (I might’ve stared a while, between those last two sentences.)
Still, a walker you can sit on. That’s a good idea. I haven’t seen that before.
I’m going to get my teeth fixed, by the way. I was saving for a home, but I’ve got that now. Two more years, and I can earn a full set of implants. Nobody’s murdering me through my teeth.
PS – I have a song stuck in my head. It’s “Let Me Call You Sweetheart.”
I’m in love with you.