The Torture Chair

I'm totally in the midst of writing something else, but this just came to me. I'm incredibly long-winded, so this is a shorty for me. --

You know the drill, they aren't mine, but I wish they were.

The Torture Chair

            I stared up at the ceiling as they poked and prodded me. There was some sort of shiny bronze-like kauffers that I could see reflections in. I could see one of them going through something, looking for a particular sized file. She'd be pretty… if she weren't about to choose the instrument of my doom. And the other? He was probably as tall as Nightwing. I could take him. But I wasn't allowed to.

            Think of it as a test of endurance, Timbo. You can do this.

            There is the faint buzzing of a motor as my head reclines, and the man looks down upon me. "This should only take about five minutes. Then we'll be done for the day. The next part is the long part. That'll be about two hours."

            I couldn't respond if I wanted to, for his hands are in my mouth, injecting something into my nerves. An injection is one thing. BUT NO ONE PUTS THEIR HANDS IN ROBIN'S MOUTH.

            "Its ok, you can breath. Nice, normal breaths." Yeah, right. You don't have two hands in your mouth. "There, we're done with that."

            And suddenly, I'm alone. I smack my face a few times, it's as numb as my butt after geometry class. The numbness spreads, along my jaw line, all the way up into my cheek and hair line. My ear is even a little numb. This'd almost be so cool, if they weren't hell-bent on torturing me.

            I stare at the brass ceiling, wondering, why me, God? I've been a good little bird, right? I protect the innocent; I protect the city, hell I've even saved the world once or twice. I've never even cheated on a test in school. I eat my veggies, I brush, I floss, what does it get me? I'm one of the good guys! I want to scream!

            After deep contemplation of the most recent crisis in my life, my  two torturers return, this time for blood.

            They talk over my head to each other, like I'm not even there. Idol pritter pratter, As if I won't notice when the drill starts spinning, hacking away pieces of me. I can feel it grinding into me. My whole face rattles as my hands dig into the cushions on the arm rests. The muscles in my back are only this tight after a rough tour of duty. Where is Batman to save me now?

            After the drill, they begin moving those horrid little files around inside the hole. And despite the Novocain, I can FEEL it. I know what they're doing to me.

            Breathe, Tim. You know half a million techniques for relaxation and pain blocking, start using them.

            But I can't. All I know is this man is drilling a hole into my head, and I'm paying him to do it. My head vibrates and I practically rip off the arm rests, and I can't bring myself to do it. I can't bring myself to calm down. I want to kill this guy. Or at least kick him in the face.

            I brushed my teeth, I repeat to myself over and over. I used mouthwash, I flossed. I'd done everything right, and here I was, Robin the Boy Hostage, at the mercy of psycho-hose-dentist and his vicious-beauty of a nurse.

            Last night we'd taken down the Riddler. No. I'm going to brag and say I took down the Riddler. I was the one who whapped him from behind and tied him up, even before Batman was done dismantling the bomb destined to blow up the Gotham Knights' stadium. Only an Arkham Escapee could ruin the play-offs in that special way the Riddler almost had… by killing all the spectators.

            And when I'd been about to haul him to his feet, his knee connected with my cheek in a lucky shot. I almost lost my grip on him, because the second his knee connected, I felt shooting, fiery pain from my jaw to my eye.

            Once the police had our little friend, I sat on the roof, holding my jaw.

            "He didn't hit you THAT hard," Batman informed me.

            "Yeah, I know. He barely connected. And its like… OUCH."

            He pulled my hand away, and gently pushed my jaw downward.

            "That looks ugly. It hasn't hurt before this?"

            I shook my head 'no'.

            "I'd get to the dentist tomorrow."

            I didn't protest, but I think he knew I wasn't really looking forward to that.

            He said I could go home, try to sleep it off a little, but I didn't think I'd get much sleep. I tagged along like a wounded puppy as we flew to the roof top of the police station to consult with the police commissioner on our capture of the Riddler. We just liked to keep him up to date and informed. It made our lives easier in the long run.

            I must have been making strange faces or something, because when I started scanning the skyline, Gordon quietly asked Batman if I was alright.

            "Abscessed tooth," he explained.

            "Ouch. Sorry to hear that kid. Better get to a dentist."

            I winced. "You know," I whined. "I brush my teeth." I practically pouted my way off the roof and jumped into the wind that was circling the building as I prepared to go to the next.

            That was about midnight last night. By two, we figured out nothing else was going to happen, and we decided to retire. Well, Batman decided to retire. I just came home because he wouldn't let me stay out all night.

            I actually got less sleep that night than any other night, because of the throbbing in my lower jaw. I convinced my dad to let me stay home, and to call the dentist immediately. I was ready to yank it out myself. Perhaps I could just bite the bullet… Just this once, you see, and do something to get the thing to stop hurting.

            I should have known that Bruce was a dentist as well as a detective, he'd called it right. The tooth was abscessed. Before I could stop him, and before I could think of something less creepy to do, my father had consented to the root canal.

            And so here I was, Robin, the Boy Hostage, attempting to not scream as this man stuck things deep into the recesses of my tooth. Mighty hero, I was not. I'd made short business of the Riddler last night, and here I was, about to cry over a tooth. Heck, I'd been shot and acted more manly about it.

            Finally I was told to rinse and spit. A half-numbed mouth doesn't work well for this and I ended up sloshing out half the water like some kind of flake. Justice League, here I come.

            I was able to somehow console myself, as the beautiful but evil assistant whipped the spit off my cheek, that perhaps all this was just God's way of keeping a little birdy just a little bit humble.