Diaskeue (di-as-keu’-ee): Graphic peristasis (description of circumstances) intended to arouse the emotions.
It was raining. The sidewalk was wet and cold under my feet. A mosquito was biting me on the forearm. I waited for the sting and slapped it hard. My blood leaked from its bloated rear end. My blood. Washed away by the rain.
I was standing outside the bus station in my underpants. I wanted to be a mannequin, but the blood thwarted my desire. People were coming and going. Nobody noticed me, or if they did, they ignored me.
I had escaped from Mr. Richards, the man who claimed to be my father. How could he be my father? His cruelty was boundless. I had to brush my teeth—to stick the plastic tool in mouth slathered mint-flavored crème and rubbed its bristled tip back and forth, and spitting (sometimes bloody drool). It made me sick. I would rinse my mouth vigorously when I was done spitting, hoping it would wash the horror away. Mr. Richardson would pat me on the back and praise me for submitting to what I considered a Satanic ritual.
I would not submit any more!
My God! Here comes Mr. Richardson! He sees me! I run. It’s hard in my underpants and barefoot. He catches me and zip ties my hands behind me for my “own good.” He drapes a raincoat over my shoulders and summons his big black limo. It arrives and he pushes me in. “What will I do with you Carlos? You refuse to believe I am your father and you refuse to brush your teeth. I am starting to think this is hopeless, that I should get rid of you somehow.”
Eventually, Mr. Richardson capitulated. I haven’t brushed my teeth for 4 years. I’ve lost 6 teeth and my gums are diseased and bleed whenever I chew.
So what?
POSTSCRIPT
I stopped taking my medication for a week. I looked in the mirror at my toothless face. My breath smelled like rotting meat. It never occurred to me to go to the dentist. Instead, I made a noose out of dental floss and pulled it tight around my neck. I climbed up on the side of the tub and tied the noose around the shower curtain rod. I jumped. The shower curtain rod came crashing down and I hit my head hard on the side of the tub. I suffered a severe concussion, became a paraplegic, and lost my ability to speak.
I have gotten a set of false teeth. Now, I spend my days eating pistachio nuts and making novelty earrings that I sell on Etsy.
Mr. Richardson is dead. He slipped on an open tube of toothpaste when he was visiting me and harassing me about my physical hygiene. “Goddamnit, tell your nurse to give you more showers” he yelled right before he slipped on the bathroom floor, whacked his head on the toilet, and died.
Now, I brush my false teeth every night before I go to bed.
Definitions courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu
Daily Trope is available in an early edition on Amazon in paperback under the title of The Book of Tropes for $9.95. It is also available in Kindle format for $5.99.
The Daily Trope 