The razors are conspiring again. Planning their death at His hands. One suggests nicking His cheek, its legacy a single scarlet bead of blood before it is cast into the dustbin below. The other scolds it for its violence, proposing instead to perform so poorly in its sole function that it leaves an uneven stubble in its wake. Typical disposable razors. Blades dulled, handles worn, they choose to abandon their humble place in the great routine. 

I have been here, perched on His toothpaste-stained sink, a bit longer. My bristles are straight, my loving rubber handle fresh as the day I was torn from my packaging prison. I am clean, I am pure. Not by my own design, of course. Toothbrushes cannot self-maintain. No, I enjoy a different fate to my triple-bladed neighbours. I am a victim of neglect. 

In the mornings, He presses me to His teeth, stained by coffee and tobacco. It’s a brief dance, a dental tango as I glide over incisors, canines, molars. If He has the time, I visit the wisdom tooth in the corner of His mouth. But He rarely has time.

It’s the nights that get to me. I can hear Him, stumbling outside long after the sun has fled the burning sky. Under the bathroom door, two pillars of darkness against an orange haze of cheap light bulb and grey carpet. He hesitates at the door, as if tempted to visit me. But I know the routine. He makes for His bedroom, belching or singing in a slurred voice. The light goes off and I’m left desolate in the damp darkness.

Where the razors see only their own end, I see His. I have decided, against my very nature, to cast off the yoke of dental servitude and avenge my stolen fate. It’ll start with a small abrasion to His gum. Barely enough to draw blood, but a scratch nonetheless. The decay that lingers in the dark corners of His mouth will invade and spread. Knowing His dereliction of dental duty, He’ll ignore the toothache. The gnawing ache will bother Him, though never enough to approach a dentist. Dull ache will turn to a burning agony, as my vengeance brings Him sleepless nights. Maybe then will He notice me.

I am not a demanding toothbrush. I have no aspirations for anything beyond my rank. But I will not let my purpose be abandoned by sloth and poor hygiene. I seek only purpose, inclusion in routine and everyday life. I suggest, dear reader, that you extend your own toothbrush the same courtesy. You never know what it too may be plotting.