In the Waiting Room

“Doctor Mark is wrapping up his 8 o’clock, he won’t be long.”

He thanks the pretty receptionist and smiles at her.

She smiles back, but he can tell: it’s just her retail face, a mask to flatter the sensitivities of middle-aged men, so desperate to be noticed.

Apparently that’s what he is now.

She gestures to the chairs, “have a seat Mr. Jones.”

It’s just a routine checkup. Still, he feels uncomfortable in his own skin, and no amount of squirming helps. He aches to be somewhere else. He hates it here, in the Waiting Room.

He even hates the name of this place. Whether at the dentist's, or the doctor's, or the DMV, wherever the Waiting Room shows up, it always feels liminal, it feels wrong. A space designated to the action-less act of waiting….

Yuck.

He looks: at the sterile, eggshell walls, at the boring magazines on the table in front of him, at the dusty plastic palm tree in the corner.

He shifts his weight and watches the minutes crawl by.

His mouth is a desert and his tongue is cardboard— he wants to ask for water but the receptionist is not behind the counter.

However; there are a few small water bottles on the counter. They must be for patients.

He drinks one and begins to feel a little queasy— claustrophobic.

What’s the hold up? He notices that he’s sweating. The realization makes him dizzy.

In the quiet of his own mind, he admits his anxiety isn’t only about waiting. It’s his fear of doctors— a fear he’s carried since childhood. Doctors seem cold and alien. Sinister. He knows it’s irrational. He knows doctors are the good guys. But he can’t shake the feeling that on some level they must enjoy other people’s pain.

He exhales. He needs a distraction.

The magazines.

He sees Doctor Mark’s smiling face beaming up from one of the covers, titled, “Having Fun With Patients!”

He lifts the magazine and notices it’s not standard magazine paper. No gloss. And though it’s bound neatly, it appears to have been done by hand.

He opens the magazine—

And recoils.

There, in a grainy print-out… Doctor Mark, leering over a flayed body.

His stomach lurches.

His pulse hammers in his temples— his dizziness is getting worse. But fear and morbid fascination hold him— he can’t tear his eyes away.

He flips through the pages: more grizzly trophy shots... Dr. Mark always smiling proudly over a mess of gore... sometimes his victims still look alert. Sometimes the pretty receptionist is smiling along with him.

He swallows back bile and tries to steady his shaking hands. He drops the magazine on the table and sees a cheesy cut out ad: “don’t miss next Month’s issue, you’ll our feature!”

He groans and tries to stand. But his legs are rubber and the room is molasses.

“Mr. Jones, the doctor will see you now”

He turns, lethargically. Through his tears, he sees Dr. Mark, smiling down at him.