Teddy sat at his kitchen table, staring at the half-eaten sandwich in front of him. His hand trembled as he reached for a toothpick. He had always used toothpicks, but lately, it had become a ritual. He poked the end of the stick between his teeth, pushing it up and down, the tiny piece of wood an anchor in a world that had begun to feel a little too unstable.
It had started with the simple habit of cleaning his teeth after meals. At first, it was nothing more than a way to get rid of the bits of food stuck in his gums. But it didn't stop there. The toothpicks kept appearing in his hands—randomly, obsessively. In the pockets of his coat, on his desk, by his bed. Every corner of his life was filled with them.
He pulled the toothpick from his mouth and examined it closely, rotating it in his fingers. There was something about them now. Something more than just an object. A tool, yes, but also... something else. He couldn't quite put his finger on it, but he could feel it in his gut.
The sensation had crept in slowly. At first, it was the paranoia that gnawed at the edges of his thoughts. A man couldn't sit alone in a room without feeling the weight of eyes on him. Teddy didn't know who was watching, but someone had to be. They always did. Someone was always there. Someone waiting. He wasn't sure why, but the toothpicks made him feel safer. They gave him something to hold onto.
He jabbed another toothpick into the meat of the sandwich, pressing the sharp end into the bread. It was useless, really. The bread didn't need a toothpick. It was soft, pliable. Still, he kept doing it. Just a quick poke. A distraction. He had to keep moving, had to keep his hands busy, or else the thoughts would take over. The noise in his head would grow louder.
The ticking of the clock was always there now, steady and rhythmic. It wasn't normal. Teddy had stopped listening to the ticking a long time ago, but now it seemed to get louder. Each tick felt like a countdown. A countdown to something.
He slammed the toothpick down onto the table. It splintered. A thin sliver of wood flew across the room. He swore under his breath. Another one lost. Another one gone. And yet he needed more. Always more.
Teddy could never explain the need, but he couldn't stop. He was afraid to stop. Every time he did, he felt a nagging in the back of his mind, an urge that grew worse the longer he fought it. The toothpicks kept him grounded. They were the one thing that made sense.
There had been moments. In the dead of night, he would wake up and see them. The toothpicks. Everywhere. Lining the floor, stuck in the walls. He was sure of it. And the worst part was that they were moving. Or maybe it was him. He wasn't sure.
One night, he stumbled across a toothpick buried in the floorboards, twisted into the grain of the wood like some strange artifact. He'd tried to pull it out, but it wouldn't budge. No matter how much force he applied, it stayed. He had to get it out, had to free the room of its secrets.
But something was stopping him.
The paranoia had started to bleed into his thoughts. What was he really doing here? What was happening? The longer the toothpicks remained, the more he felt himself unraveling. Each one, each tiny sliver of wood, seemed to magnify the silence that hung in his apartment.
It wasn't a silence that made you feel safe. No, this was the kind of silence that stretched out, that pressed in. A silence that didn't feel empty, but full. Full of things just out of reach.
Teddy began carrying toothpicks with him wherever he went. To the store. To the bar. To the park. He had to have them. He couldn't risk being caught without them. The fear—no, the certainty—that someone or something was following him intensified. The toothpicks were all he had left.
People had started to notice. He could see the looks. The strange way people would glance at him as he sat with the toothpick between his fingers, tapping it gently on the table, or picking at his nails with it. But they didn't understand. How could they? They didn't know what he was up against.
One evening, a man in a grocery store had laughed when Teddy fumbled with the plastic-wrapped toothpicks in his pocket, spilling them across the floor. Teddy had stared at him, his jaw clenched tight. The man laughed harder, oblivious to the coldness in Teddy's eyes. A tightness in his chest, then the words came out, slower than he wanted. "Don't laugh at me."
The man stopped laughing, eyes narrowing. He stepped back. Teddy didn't know what he was doing, only that the man had to stop laughing. He had to stop making him feel small, helpless. Teddy reached into his pocket, pulling out a toothpick and holding it out like a knife.
The man's face dropped. "What the hell—"
Teddy jabbed the toothpick into the man's hand. It didn't even register as real at first. The man's scream cut through the air, sharp and ragged. Teddy didn't know what he was doing. He couldn't stop. He had to stop the laughter. He had to stop the sound.
The man fell back, clutching his hand, his fingers bent at odd angles, the toothpick still embedded deep in his flesh. Teddy stood there, staring at the bloodstained toothpick, unable to comprehend the mess he'd just made.
That was the moment the spiral began.
The paranoia hit harder than ever. Teddy couldn't look at anyone without thinking they were after him, waiting for the right moment to make their move. He couldn't sleep. Every night he'd hear the soft thudding of someone walking outside his door. Every creak of the floorboards felt like a threat. It was impossible to escape.
Toothpicks. He needed more toothpicks.
The sound of the doorbell ringing set him off one afternoon. He didn't know who was at the door, but it didn't matter. They were here. Whoever they were, they were finally here.
He grabbed the toothpick holder off the table and smashed the door open with his shoulder. There was no one there. Just the empty hall. His breath was heavy, his pulse pounding in his throat.
He stood in the doorway, looking down at the pile of toothpicks that had spilled from his hands. They were everywhere, a trail leading away into the darkness. His fingers trembled as he reached down, picking one up, holding it tightly.
Then he heard a sound.
A soft shuffle. Someone was moving toward him from the other side of the hall.
Teddy's heart raced. His legs felt numb. He gripped the toothpick like it was a weapon. He wasn't sure what was happening. His mind was a whirlwind of half-formed thoughts.
He charged into the dark corridor, toothpick outstretched. He had to do something. He had to protect himself. It wasn't too late.
Then, a voice. Soft and low, barely a whisper: "Teddy..."
He froze. The voice sounded so familiar. But who was it? His fingers twitched around the toothpick. His thoughts fractured.
The darkness closed in, pulling at him. His own breath was the loudest sound in his ears. His vision tunneled as he stumbled backward, the room seeming to collapse in on him.
He felt a hand on his shoulder. Teddy spun around, teeth gritted, ready to strike.
But the hand fell away. His mother, pale and thin, stood before him. Her eyes were empty. Hollow. No light left.
"You shouldn't have," she whispered. "You never should've."
Teddy reached for the toothpicks again, but his hands were trembling too much to hold them.
The world spun, and he fell to his knees, surrounded by them. Hundreds of toothpicks. Thousands. All around him. As his breath slowed, the truth settled in.
There was no escape.
The toothpicks had him.