Simon Said (short story)

The light flickered and sputtered on, shining a jarring gleam on Simon's old, dry face. His bridgeless button nose peaking out of a scraggly beard, unkept. Untamed. 

He had worn the same Tshirt for a few days and hadn't changed his drawers in two. He scratched at his left butt cheek, while simultaneously readjusting himself in the front, on the right. 

He smiled at himself as he let out a relief. He thought back to the accusation Susan had had about his hygiene. It hadn't even been a week since he showered, he's just dowsed himself with body spray, making his coworkers gag with the stale machoness, failing to really drown out the smell. 

As he held the smile and took a whiff of his daily achievements, he caught the glimpse of his consciousness staring back at him. If a pupil could have their hands on their hips, with an attitude that yelled, "what in the world are you doing?!"

His teeth screamed out in unison, while his jaw unhinged. His front incisors withered and shattered in their sockets, bursting with puss and blood. His gums began to bleed and his canines grew too long and too sharp, both piercing and stapling his chapped lips shut. His molars calmly climbed out of his mouth, crawling to the grimey sink drain, hoping for a better fate to end their lives.

Roots entangled and merged together, as the bacteria swelled around his tongue, coating it with an extra layer of plaque.

Panicking, Simon lunged for the mouthwash, but he had forgotten to purchase more. His neurons seemingly fused together as he tried to recall the last time he actually went to the store. The brain, running out of energy, flung what was left into the living room and found the bottle of poison.

The doctor had told him that if he kept drinking, his health would decline and his teeth would rot. He unscrewed the lid and took a big swig with little hesitation. 

He ran back to the bathroom mirror. Simon looked at himself, satisfied in the reflection; he saw nothing wrong.

...