Heartbreakers Must Pay

Part 5 "My heart was a black lump"

5:45.

Two bicuspids and an eye tooth lay in the blood pooling on the floor next to the dental chair. Morice's mouth pulsed and oozed in a thick lava flow. Groans and choking gurgles give me a moment's pause. He could be going into shock.

Trembling, I squeeze my pliers. "You know nothing of pain. Of shock. Of a hurt so deep." I spit my blood onto his mangled face. "I'd imagine my heart was a black lump of dead with little white worms crawling through it."

I hear a car door and glance at the clock.

5:51. It could be Dr. Rumee. I listen for the tacky cow bell on the front door. Silence.

I look back down on my patient. I can't process what exists before me. I need to escape, so I remember...

The first time Morice and I were alone together.

He had invited to his home for my advice on the stone pattern to use on his patio. I had blurted out something about choosing the brick design for Vahn's coffee shop entrance—I was trying to work into the conversation that I had a fiancée, a wedding date—a life all planned out.

Morice congratulated me. "Vahn's a very very lucky man." And somehow that led to Morice redoing his patio and to me coming over to add a "woman's special touch." And my finding myself wrapped in his powerful arms.

He was like a drug. I couldn't get enough. He occupied my every thought. Every song on the radio was our song. I'd hear his special text tone on my phone--only to see the screen was blank. I had imagined he texted me. My anxiety built until he finally did. A simple 'hi' or 'I miss you' or 'hope ur daz good' and I'd risk everything to be with him again. And again.

I'd plan our magical future life together. Even though Morice casually mentioned--after a particularly amazing afternoon—that he didn't see himself as the "commitment" type. I responded by tracing a heart gently on his solid chest. "Maybe you haven't met the right girl."

If I woke up and didn't have a 'good morning babe' text, I was crushed. My whole day seemed to go wrong until he contacted me. Sometimes, I wanted him to text me just so I could not text him back. Show him how it felt.

But once I was in his powerful embrace, all was forgiven. His kisses poured over my body as he told me how much he missed me. And how I wanted to believe him. How I wanted to imagine that wherever he was—whoever he was with—he only thought about me.

And then there were the cold sweats at 3 a.m. I'd wake up gasping for breath. I can't do this anymore, I'd say to myself. He brings nothing to the table. Nothing. He's just a plaything. He is using me.

5:53. I glare down at my completely unconscious patient. "You rotten bastard. I wish I never met you." Every muscle trembles and I desperately want my sweatshirt. How did it get so cold in here?

Shiny, sharp dental tools lay like soldiers waiting for battle on the tray by my side. A faint smile grows from within me. They seem to beg me to finish the job. As if each little perfect silver tool wants to help carve my pain away.

With a perfect square of white gauze, I wipe the razor point of the probe. I want it to glisten. I want it to be flawless as I finish the job.

"This is for all the tender, trusting hearts you've broken," I grit through my teeth. "Kasidy was soooooo right about you."