Toothpaste Stream

An Extract From: Let Helen Like Snow

Theo felt the water dripping down his arm irritatingly from his toothbrush, onto his wrist. It flowed over his wrist bone, and took its stream in the crevices of his exposed skin, where it trickled and dripped off the edge of his elbow. The drip would hang teasingly, shaking in the vibration of Theo’s brushing motion, before eventually dropping down, stalactite-like as it plopped onto the cold porcelain. More drips followed, saliva-filled, opaque water infused with toothpaste and plaque, residue from yesterday’s lunch.

He glanced in the mirror and scorched the sight of his pathetic Colgate grin and godforsaken bed hair. The mirror itself was steamy, distorted, not providing a clear view of his morning eye-crust which he could feel, itching the far corners of his lacrimal caruncle, inhabiting the upper arches of his loose eyelashes. He

blinked to remove the excess, to no avail.

The bathroom light was rude and obnoxious, and the early morning moon scarpered behind wispy clouds in an attempt to hide, like a changing woman walked in on before she’s ready. Theo yawned, and purposely dug the toothbrush into the gums of his lower mouth. He drew blood. Easy, expendable, diluted blood; like the coke at a fast-food drinks machine. Tasteless. It polluted the river of drips, and the pinkish-red stream flowed down the side of his arm, and pitter-patter stains pinged on the sink’s edge.

The tap was splashing back onto Theo’s work top, little blotches of darkened cloth now accompanied the morning’s porridge stains which were rapidly crusting. Polyester, 100%. A polyester world at this early hour; the hour for weak stomachs and unforgiving back of throat scratches that warned of early colds. The window pains were frosted, and did their best to hide the dark reality of the world Theo had awoken into, the last guardians of his dreamland.

Bags for Life, the company preached. Bags for Life, deep and purple under Theo’s eyes. Seventy Eight job applications this month, six replies, zero interviews. Bags for Life, consequential and turgid.

He turned the tap off, and wiped his mouth using a towel from the floor. He went downstairs.

He could still feel the dried river bed on his arm.

It still irritated him.

The insides of his cheeks were torn-up.

Like ripped chainmail after battle.

He’d regularly bite them to wake himself up.

His hair was all over the shop.

Out the door, off to work.

The car is a brick of ice, and its clock shows 5:20am. Coatless, Theo scrapes at the ice, watching the white powder gather and dissipate in the harsh light of the overhead street lamp.

Back into the car, where the seat is cold.

The sun will rise three hours from now.

The full beams of oncoming traffic walk the last crumbs of Theo’s dreamy slumber to the foot of the guillotine, before laying its head down on the cold sharp metal, and dropping the thin blade down whilst proclaiming the dawn of a forced awoken consciousness.