Mouthwash

*Gore / Abuse*

All his life, Vitaly had brushed his teeth three times a day: once in the morning, once after dinner, and once at bedtime. His mother had taught him that, and he had never deviated from it—until a month ago.

It went from three times a day to four. Soon it was five. Now it was seven times a day that he brushed—and still, it wasn't enough. His teeth were pristine white, but his gums had begun to recede from the hard, constant scrubbing, and all day long, he could taste blood in his mouth—which only made him want to brush more. This was all the more unusual given that the man hadn't bathed in a month. His hair was tatty, his beard scruffy, and his fingernails black with grime. In short, Vitaly stank.

Being a stinky man comes with all sorts of problems—obvious problems, but also problems that a cleanly person may not imagine: lying to one's mother, for example. That was something Vitaly loathed to do. When she last called, she had asked if the sweater she had knitted him was a good fit. Of course, Vitaly hadn't tried it on for fear of tainting it with his odor and told his mother it looked fantastic on him. Another issue was the heat—an odd thing to contend with in December in Saint Petersburg, but the radiator in his rented bedsit was locked and on a timer, and since he couldn't open the window (if he did, it would be difficult to pretend he wasn't home), the room was often fiery-hot.

It was Monday (or thereabouts) when Jack called.

Jack had been Vitaly's roommate at university—an American-Russian who had majored in computer science, now living and working in Silicon Valley in California. The pair had kept in touch since graduating four years ago, and Vitaly considered him his best friend.

"Jack! Oh, Jack, it's so good to hear your voice!"

"Hey, buddy. Sorry I haven't called in a while, work's been crazy."

"Oh ho, those nerds been riding your ass, huh?"

"Haha, like a bull... Listen, pal, I can't talk long, and I need to tell you something... I'm real unhappy about it, but I don't think I'll be able to call for a while. Possibly a long while."

"You won't? Why?"

"Well, it's complicated. The U.S. government has started to take interest in some of the things we're doing here. My dual nationality is already causing a few problems for me. I can't really exacerbate them by making calls to Russia."

"To who, me? Jack, come on, I studied music. I'm unemployed. I live in a hovel, man."

"You're unemployed? What happened to the job at the restaurant?"

"Oh, they fired me last month. They thought I was skimming the cash register."

"You weren't, were you?"

"My friend, this is Russia. Nobody cares about music anymore, my mother is sick, and trust me, Albanian-owned restaurants do not make their money cooking beef stroganoff—yes, I was skimming the register."

"You're a crazy son of a bitch, you know that? You'll wind up in a landfill... How is your mother?"

"Getting worse, man. I'll need to go see her soon."

"I'm real sorry, Vit. You coping okay?"

"Yes... Actually, I got this other problem. It's gonna sound mad."

"Madder than ripping off Albanian gangsters?"

"I can't stop brushing my teeth."

"...You can't what?"

"Six, seven times a day. It's like something in my head—I can't help it. It's ruining my gums, I think my teeth might fall out."

"Have you tried mouthwash?"

"What would that do?"

"Well, maybe if you use mouthwash, you won't feel the compulsion to brush so much."

"That's actually worth a shot. You always were a problem solver, Jack! But luxuries are so expensive here."

"Everything's digital around these parts. We use digital mouthwash, it's the latest in dental technology. You just recharge the bottle like you would a mobile, and it never runs out."

"How can it never run out?"

"Well, I don't have time for a quantum physics lesson right now, but the universe is just math, right? That includes mouthwash too. All you have to do is pour some digits into your mouth, give it a good swill, and spit. And remember to recharge the bottle."

"When it comes to the science, I'll take your word for it, Jack."

"And don't swallow. That's very important! I'll send you a bottle. Call it a goodbye-for-now present."

"You're not going to disappear on me forever, are you, mate?"

"No, Vit. As soon as these spooks are off our backs, I'll call you, I promise."

A week or so later, there was a knock at the door. Vitaly crept up to the peephole and saw a delivery man holding a box. "Leave it on the step, please!" he shouted.

"I need you to sign," came the reply.

Vitaly cringed as he opened the door. Sunlight surged in like a radioactive tidal wave. He signed for the package while shielding his eyes with his other hand but saw the silhouette in front of him put his hand over his nose and mouth. "Thanks," he mumbled, taking the package, then slammed the door and collapsed, exhausted.

The mouthwash bottle was like any other, except it appeared empty and had no label, and there was a USB port in the bottom of it. He plugged in the charger. Little black numbers began to appear and effervesce up around the bottle. "Cool," he said, and went to brush his teeth.

After a vigorous scrubbing, he fetched the mouthwash and did as Jack had told him; he swilled the digits around his mouth, careful not to swallow any, then spat them into the sink—along with a tooth that escaped down the plughole before he could catch it. "Oh no. Am I too late?" he said. He hooked his mouth with his finger and leaned into the mirror. "Hang in there! Please hang in there! I have a solution!"

All that day, Vitaly didn't feel the need to brush, but after losing one, he found himself constantly prodding and rubbing his teeth, testing to see if any others were loose. He tested so much that by the end of the day his nails were clean. He was in bed, poking a lateral incisor, when he got the call that his mother had died.

"What? What! No. It can't be. Her doctor said she had another six months!"

"I'm terribly sorry. Sometimes it just happens this way. There was nothing anyone could have done."

"Bullshit. It was negligence. I'll be investigating this, don't think I won't! I am a very litigious person!"

"Sir, I can assure you it was nobody's fault... I've been trying to reach your father, but—"

Vitaly slammed the phone down. He got out of bed and paced the room, angrily kicking garbage out of his way and shaking his fists. "This can't be. Mama. This can't be." He took the sweater she had knitted from his wardrobe and held it to his face. He began to cry. "I'm sorry, Mama. I'm so sorry."

Then the thought came to him: how would he attend her funeral? He would have to get a bath, a shave, a haircut, get his suit cleaned and pressed, and find money for a train ticket... What about accommodation? What about his teeth? It was all too much. He frantically searched the bedsit top to bottom, looking for alcohol—any alcohol—but there was none. He'd run out weeks ago. And the urge to brush came throbbing back to him like slimy fingers probing his mouth. He ran to the bathroom and picked up his toothbrush in his trembling fist, but before he succumbed to his craving for foam and bristles, he saw the mouthwash by the sink, and he paused.

"The universe is just math, right," said Jack's voice in his head.

And Vitaly's universe wasn't adding up—so, "What the hell..." He closed his eyes and glugged down the numbers.

When he opened his eyes again, he was tied to a chair in a basement, with two large, sweaty men in black aprons staring down at him. One of them was brandishing a pair of pliers; the other was screaming at him in Albanian. Vitaly tried to speak but started to choke, sputtering blood over his chin and down his chest. He gasped, desperately trying to inhale, but instead swallowed what felt like a cupful of blood, and he wretched violently. The second Albanian continued to scream at him, and he wretched some more. Suddenly, a rubber flip-flop shot out of his mouth and hit the screaming man in the face. He shut up. The men looked at each other, then took a few steps back. Another flip-flop fired out and whizzed past the man with the pliers… then two waggling feet slipped out, followed by a pair of legs… With one final heave, Vitaly vomited the rest of his mother onto the floor, where she lay unmoving in her blood-soaked nightgown, the Albanians gawking down at her like a couple of petrified turkeys.

“Mama?” said Vitaly. “Mama, is that you?”

• "Stand out of my light," said Diogenes to Alexander.

One of the men ran and fetched a jerrycan, and poured gas all over Mama.

“What are you doing!” screamed Vitaly. “She’s alive! She’s still alive!”

The other man lit a match.

“Don't! I'm sorry! I'm sorry! Look at me! I'm sorry!”

But they wouldn't, and Mama went up in flames.

Vitaly shot upright. He was in bed in his bedsit, leaking stink from every crevice in his flesh. The phone was ringing.

“Mama?”

“What? No, mate, it's Jack.”

“Jack? You said you couldn’t call for a while. Possibly a long while.”

“I know… About that—”

“Wait,” said Vitaly, fighting back his tears. “I have to open the window.”