Chapter 7 : The Smile Vanishes

"Every time you smile at someone, it is an action of love, a gift to that person, a beautiful thing."

— Mother Teresa

Pain has many faces. Some pain hides in the shadows of memory, while others carve themselves into flesh and bone, leaving visible wounds mirroring deeper hurts. For Alex, these two forms of suffering would become inextricably linked. A memory, lodged of the creak sound of a Soviet dentist’s chair, forever warped not only his smile but every moment, where the bitterness of helplessness, mingled with the iron taste of blood, echoes through the years like an unquenchable reverberation of pain.

A smile is a mirror of the beautiful light emanating from the soul, a universal language breaking through the boundaries of human experience. It communicates feelings of happiness, love and connection—that little bend in the road putting everything in its proper place. A single smile may alter the course of history, while its absence can leave one in a dark world where the beauty of human connection gets lost. Even in its most basic form, a smile serves as a pillar of optimism, a way to find comfort in the magnificent web of life, where happiness is sewn into each thread.

There would be no happiness today for Alex.  In a room lost in the annals of time, where the walls bore the peeling remnants of two paint shades—institutional white and faded yellowish-green—windows stood half-shrouded by white sheets, as if ashamed of the proceedings they witnessed. The atmosphere held a melancholic clot, heavy with the whispered tales of countless dental procedures. A faint antiseptic scent lingered, its chemical clarity a stark contrast to the decay it fought to mask. The linoleum floor, once a sterile grey expanse, had surrendered to the marks of innumerable footsteps, each scuff marking a tribute to another patient's journey through pain. Behind closed doors, a symphony of moans, shouts, and screams painted the stark reality of this place—a sanctuary where fears were rekindled and smiles, seemingly, were erased.

At the room's heart stood the dental chair, a colossal and formidable presence, seemingly plucked from the pages of horror fiction rather than modern dentistry. Its faded brown leather, once sturdy, now cracked and frayed, carried the weight of countless patients’ anguish, every crack on the leather a mute testament to their unspoken pain. Beside this imposing throne loomed the dental drill—an intricate contraption reminiscent of an exoskeleton, its inner workings exposed like the nervous system of some mechanical beast. Its operation emitted an eerie, high-pitched whir, a sound that had been its relentless companion since the days of the Cold War. As the chair reclined with an unsettling creak, it unveiled a meticulously arranged collection of aged, sterilized instruments resting on a nearby sterile metal tray, their purpose as clear as their worn surfaces.  The fluorescent lights flickered at odd intervals with a bothersome buzz accompanying their pale, unsettling light, as if they were angry that they were still alive to see what happened next. An old Soviet poster hung nearby, featuring a happy dentist in a lab coat and gloves, asking with painted optimism, "Did you brush your teeth today?"—a scene depicting a time when public healthcare was the motivating norm, though its promises often fell as short as its comforts.

Outside the door, Alex's mother pressed by unseen hands her forehead against the cold wall, each scream hitting her like a physical blow. She recognized the sound—it was the same tone he'd used as a toddler, calling for help she couldn't give. Her fingers found the familiar worry-smooth edge of her handkerchief, twisting it into knots that would never be as tight as the ones in her stomach. This helplessness had a bitter familiarity.  It tasted like every other time she'd had to watch her child suffer without intervention.  Inside, Alex lay ensconced in the dental chair, fighting his fear shadows, his chest bearing the heaviness of a dentist's knee, while an assistant held his head firmly against the headrest. The setting, brilliantly illuminated, seemed to stretch time itself, with every moment laden with significance.

Dr. Ivanov had not always been this way. Twenty years ago, fresh from medical school, he'd promised himself to be different from the butchers who'd trained him. He'd even hung that ridiculous poster—'Did you brush your teeth today?'—believing in its cheerful message. But time and quotas had worn down his ideals like enamel exposed to acid. He didn't notice exactly when the transformation happened. Perhaps it was after the tenth child who wouldn't stay still or the hundredth reprimand about taking too long with patients. Maybe it was during that harsh winter when the anaesthetic supplies ran low, and he had to choose which patients deserved the precious numbness. Today, looking down at this white-haired boy, he felt the familiar hardening in his chest—the same calcification that had turned his heart from flesh to stone. The child's eyes pleaded with him, but he had learned to see past eyes, past humanity, and to focus only on the task: teeth that needed removing, a quota that needed meeting.

“Hold him tighter!” he barked at the nurses, his voice carrying the same mechanical efficiency as his drill. Each day, each patient, each scream—they all became entries in a ledger of necessary cruelty. He had learned to measure success, not in smiles saved, but in procedures completed. Yet something about this boy's resistance nags at him, like a tooth with a hidden root. In the child's defiance, he caught a glimpse of his younger self, of the idealistic doctor he'd once been. The recognition lasted only a moment before he buried it, like so many other inconvenient feelings, beneath the sterile mask of Soviet medicine.

The boy's eyes met the dentist's, pleading for understanding, but the pain persisted, unrelenting even after medication. As the dentist's knee dug harder, Alex felt something shift inside him—not just teeth, but faith itself. Each crack of enamel echoed deeper, breaking not just bone but belief: belief in adults' protection, in his mother's power to help, in his own right to be heard. The boy who entered that room would not be the one who left it. Another nurse joined the fray to hold the boy's head steady—the three-person restraint is a testament to the brutality of Soviet-era dental care.  In a climactic moment, his mother received an ultimatum—control the boy or face dire consequences. Three women, united in purpose, firmly grasped the boy's headband, pinning down his arms and desperate struggles. One hand gripped Alex’s chest with an iron clasp, pinning him to the chair, its cold metal searing through his thin shirt. A rubber gag, shoved into his mouth, muffled his moans, preventing even the closing of his lips, while his throat churned with the acrid stench of medicine and the metallic taste of fear—a bitter tang of blood and copper that would haunt him for years, becoming so familiar it sometimes felt like part of himself. The dentist's final pull came with horrible screeching noises, the room resonating with Alex's painful screams. Blood painted a harsh reality against the institutional backdrop, an atmosphere heavy with anger, tears and frustration.

During the Soviet era, it was a common occurrence, but for Alex, it became yet another pivotal moment in fostering distrust toward others. He made a silent promise never to visit a dentist again—a self-inflicted curse that would shadow his future. As soon as he was released, Alex bolted, his face contorted in agony, the emptiness in his mouth matching the void in his trust. He ran until he reached home, his mind replaying the vivid, horrifying scene like a nightmarish film reel stuck on repeat. The smile he once had started to fade, not just from trauma but from a deeper understanding that some pains can't be hidden behind closed lips. His deteriorating teeth became a physical manifestation of internal wounds, each crack and cavity a map of memories he couldn't erase. Alex soon began cataloging his new habits: how he learned to speak without parting his lips, without raising his eyes, how he tilted his head in photographs, how he measured every laugh to ensure his teeth remained hidden. These were not mere habits—they became another layer of armor, pieced together fragment by fragment from the wreckage of shattered trust.

The mirror turned into a merciless enemy, daily reflecting only a broken child—Alex’s distorted face, etched with shame and scars, pulling him deeper into the darkness of despair. This self-inflicted curse shadowed him for years, teaching him that sometimes the greatest distance is measured not in steps but in the gap between the desire to help and the ability to act—a lesson that echoed far beyond the walls of that Soviet dental office, reverberating through even darker moments.