Pain

            The pain consumed Steven.  He doubted he would ever again be the same healthy, cheerful person he was before.  This was the end for him.  This agony he was feeling was beyond what any mortal man was able to take, he decided.  He deserved a medal just for staying conscious this long. 

            This white coated beast mocked him.  That color was supposed to be a sign of peace, and harmony, not drills and pain.  He would remember that.  Never be fooled again, he told himself.  He would never let the reassuring words and gentle voices disguise the true terror unleashed here.  This was a place of death, and discord.  This is the Stuff of Hieronymus Bosch paintings and hell mouths.  Children whisper of this place at night, under the covers, after their parents have told them what happens to bad little girls and boys.

            This is why he hated going to the Dentist.  He loved living in denial instead.  As long as he did not know about it, nothing was wrong.  He could rationalize that pain in his jaw of that black spot on his molar as normal, or imaginary, or a symptom of his ever growing, self-diagnosed hypochondria.  Most of this was just a scam anyway; another effort to pump more money out of him like he was an ATM wearing a polo t and khakis. 

            The fact that he was in all likelihood perfectly fine did nothing to lesson his suffering, however.  He would have creamed if he could; if this sadist had not forced a dozen metal instruments into his mouth like it was the silverware rack in a dishwasher.    He wanted to run, he wanted to break free and liberate his fellow captives.  Together they would escape and never return.  He would be his own man, beholden to no one and free to do what he wanted, when he wanted, with no men in white lab coats telling him what to do.  Sadly, this would not come to pass, and he was forced to sit here, eyes watering, as his dentist told him again, that he should really floss more.