Tightening

Tightening by Samson McDougall

The tightening began in the corners of my mouth. I could feel blood pulsing through there, but the onset was gradual enough that I hardly noticed anything was wrong. I’d been selling hotdogs at the footy all weekend, which involved a hell-of-a lot of yelling, some tightness in the mouth was to be expected.

My mother visited from the country and noticed the tightening straight away.
‘Your mouth looks smaller or something’, she said.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about’, I lied. I could feel it and I had noticed it alright, yet it all felt strangely necessary somehow, with the blood pumping through there and such.

Shaving became easier, which was nice. I nicked one of the new veins in my cheek one morning though and it bled like hell. The flesh across my face and forehead stiffened up nicely, it became very smooth. The skin stretching around my eyes seemed to allow them to open further, I felt smarter. As, Es, Ks, Hs, Ss, and Zs became increasingly difficult to say so I started to avoid unnecessary speech. I quit my job at the hot-dog stand. The veins pulsed harder and stiffened further across my face. My mouth was growing narrower; my mother was right. I started drawing funny looks on the street; small children would cower from my constricting grimace.

My mother came back uninvited and forced me to see a doctor. I had been blissfully unaware of the seriousness of my condition; I had been quietly excited about the new me; I had thought I was evolving; I had been wrong…

Dr Walden had a wide mouth; I could see filthy saliva dribble in there when he spoke. He had no clue what was wrong with me but my mother had brought some photos of my former self as evidence. Looking at the photos I realised it had been weeks since I had been able to smile. Through curiosity, he contacted an oral specialist colleague and arranged for him to examine me.

Dr Peters had an unusually narrow mouth and although it was a far cry from the marvellous rigidity of my own, I liked him. He examined me thoroughly. He was barely able to contain his excitement ‘I need to do some reading son,’ he told me, ‘why don’t you come back in the morning.’ I did…

The news was not good. Dr Peters believed I was suffering from a rare condition called oro-facial circulatory tightening. This condition was in fact so rare that there had been only two documented cases, both of which pre-dated the turn of last century. From his research he had discovered that OFCT leads to increased blood flow to the eyes and brain via enlargement of the jugular arterial route. This explained the heightened awareness and increased mental capacity that I had been enjoying. The downside was, Dr Peters explained, that in time my mouth would entirely close over leaving me unable to eat and speak. Furthermore, my heart would not be able to cope with its increased workload and I would ultimately suffer heart failure as a result. That was, of course, if his diagnosis was correct.

I hated the tightening now; my mind raced, drastically searching for the solution that Dr Peters had deemed impossible. The drawbacks now began to haunt me. The pulsing blood-vessels through my face dogged me day and night. The stretched skin across my face held my eyes open, I could no longer sleep and my mind was constantly racing. I took to avoiding mirrors, I loathed my closening mouth. I could not eat in public and had to wear a napkin as a bib as I hunkered in my rapidly deteriorating apartment.

My mother got wind of my condition and dragged me along to a psychologist. Dr Murant was so disgusted by my appearance that she could barely look me in the eye. I could not speak due to my saliva seepage, but I left her office with the message that I must not take my time for granted; she prescribed me anti-depressants which I avoided.

My mind sped faster each day, my appetite left me and I ceased sleeping at all. My world was in fast-forward, I could trap flies between my fingers easily and I could read a novel in less than an hour. I then moved onto religious texts–the bible, the Koran. I sought solace in books; I read the classics, I learnt of ancient civilisations. I stayed up for a week and a half before dozing off with my eyes open—I somehow read War and peace while I was asleep.

I turned to music next; it had always been a love of mine. I learned to play the guitar, the bass and drums in a day, yet I struggled to master singing with my mouth now resembling a pin-hole. I sucked smoothies and baby food through a straw when required. I ignored the tranquilisers as they seemed to hinder my education. I laid down an entire record on a four-track in a single night—it attracted a record label through online sales.

I never, ever left the house now; my mother would bring me supplies as I needed them. Sometimes she would stay a while but my constant activity troubled her too much, she did not think I was listening to her—I was multi-tasking. I could read a book, watch a movie, and play a musical instrument at the same time. I was on fire, there was no stopping me.

By September, four months since my diagnosis, my beard had fully covered my mouth space and hair had sprouted from where my lips used to be. It was a glass of water that tripped me up; when the straw no longer squeezed into my miniature mouth-hole I realised I could no longer make it alone. I wanted to drink so badly it hurt. Not long after that I collapsed, one of my special new blood-vessels burst and flooded my head and chest with blood. My mother found me on the kitchen floor and called the ambulance.

They managed to separate a small section of skin and repair the split vessel. They sent me home so I could enjoy the last remaining weeks of my life as much as I could. The interior of my mouth had deteriorated now to the point that my teeth were falling out daily and my oral hygiene was abysmal. It wasn’t long until large sections of my jaw and palette began disintegrating, filling my head cavity with a rancid, decomposing pulp. An infection led to my current spell back in the wards.

I am waiting now with what some would call bated breath. A machine pumps a constant stream of strangers’ blood into my face and neck. They tell me it will run out eventually, the blood supply. I suppose I’m waiting for that to happen; I’m not really sure.

Samson McDougall © 2008

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