Volume 1 (1999/2000)
Issue 1 (March 1999)
Issue 2 (Nov. 1999)
Issue 3 (Dec. 1999)
Issue 4 (Feb. 2000)
Issue 5 (March 2000)
Issue 6 (April 2000)
Issue 7 (May 2000)

Volume 2 (2000/2001)
Issue 1 (Sept. 2000)
Issue 2 (Oct. 2000)
Issue 3 (Jan. 2001)
Issue 4 (March 2001)
Issue 5 (April 2001)
Issue 6 (May 2001)

Volume 3 (2001)
Issue 1 (Sept. 2001)
Issue 2 (Nov. 2001)

Categories
Sport: 1 2 3
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Commentary: 1 2 3
Review: 1 2 3
Writing: 1 2 3
Event: 1 2 3

Fear

Lauren Murphy
Mater Christi SS, Dublin

I pushed open the heavy door of the surgery and ventured forward into the gloom. The huge brass knocker, in the shape of a lion's head seemed to glare menacingly at me, but I shut my eyes and stepped gingerly into the waiting room. The horrible, musty smell had by now grown on me, and my nostrils had become accustomed to the sickly sweet odour that seeped from under the dentist's door.

I had always hated dentists. Ever since I was a small child, I've always had a fear of anything to do with dentists, dentistry or dental surgeries. I'm not quite sure how it started; perhaps it's because my Granddad had false teeth and said the dentist had taken his real ones; or maybe it was the spooky bedtime stories about dentists that I was told as a youngster. Either way, I was sure of one thing- I did NOT want to be in that dentist's surgery on that cold December morning.

I forced myself to walk through the waiting room door and looked around.
There were three other people waiting, along with the dour-faced receptionist sitting behind her desk in the corner. I hobbled over to the desk, glad to be in out of the frosty morning. However, I quickly changed my mind and wished that I was back outside when I saw her. She still hadn't noticed that I was standing right in front of her, so I cleared my throat to get her attention. By this time, I was really in pain with my tooth, which had been aching for the past week.

"Excuse me" I mumbled, which came out sounding like "Ekhuse Schme".
Not bothering to look up from her magazine, she said, "Yes, what is it?"
"Erm…I have an appointment with Dr. O'Brien for 10.30" I said anxiously.
Maybe they had forgotten about me and I'd have to live with this pain forever.
"No!" I thought. "A fate worse than death!" (or dentists).

Suddenly the receptionist looked up. She was a stern faced woman, with a knitted grey cardigan and horn-rimmed spectacles. It looked like her face would crack if she even attempted a smile. She seemed to fit in with the scenery. "Sit over there" she snapped, glaring at me. "Dr. O'Brien will be with you when he's ready". I mumbled a thank you and, like a chastised six-year old, walked quickly to a chair in the corner of the room. It was a good vantage point to survey the room. The waiting room itself was sparsely furnished. There were a couple of chairs, an empty aquarium with slimy green water and some sort of moss floating in it, and a solitary table, with a pile of magazines dating from (judging by the thick layer of dust adorning them), at least 1975.

I glanced from behind one of these magazines and looked around at my fellow patients. None of them seemed to notice that I was reading an article on "the latest teen sensation, The Beatles". They were all too locked away in their own little worlds, and believe me; they looked far from tranquil. There was an elderly woman sitting directly across from me, with her eyes clamped closed and her brow furrowed in concentration. At first I thought that she was talking to herself, but I soon realised that she was murmuring fervently and reciting something. I looked down at her hands, which rested in her lap to see what she clasped so tightly. To my amazement, it was a set of rosary beads. I felt myself break into a cold sweat. What had I gotten myself into?

With a lump in my throat, I turned nervously to the other side of the room. I noticed a little boy holding his Mummy's hand. "Aww, how sweet", I thought to myself. "See? It can't be that bad if that little boy can…" I stopped mid-thought when I saw that the little boy was weeping incessantly and that his mummy was gripping his hand tightly so that he couldn't make a run for it!

With every second that passed, I grew more nervous. It didn't help when heard faint screams coming from under the door of the surgery. At first I thought it was my imagination, but I knew that even I couldn't imagine a scream as spine-tingling or as blood-curdling as the one that I heard. Tick, tock, tick, tock, went the clock. I was now in a full-blown state of panic. The door opened and closed, once, twice, but I never saw who was behind it. I was absolutely terrified. I was about to pack up and go, willing to put up with this physical pain for eternity rather than the mental pain I was enduring now, when I heard a creaking sound. Oh no, the door was opening! The hinges squeaked eerily as it opened back to reveal the interior of the surgery.

Suddenly, a shadow blocked the doorway and darkened the already dull room. A huge figure stepped into the light, a shining scalpel in hand, and wearing a bloodstained apron. Dr. O'Brien snapped on one of his rubber gloves and stared at me, still cowering in the corner and trembling like a fly that knows it's about to be squashed by a rolled-up newspaper. Grinning sadistically, and with an evil glint in his eye, he uttered that immortal word.

"Next".

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