The Waiting Room

She scratched her index nail against her thumb nail impatiently. The beige walls staring at her the same way they always did, or had? She couldn't tell anymore. This was the worst part. The waiting. Nothing exciting every happened when she stared at these beige walls. To her left, four empty hard-plastic, navy blue chairs sat, the same as before. To her right, three empty chairs. Her nose twitched.

In front of her a half wall; the bottom half beige, the top half a frosted glass. She wondered if maybe she should get up and tap to see if someone were on the other side, but something kept her in the chair. On the right of the window sat a handleless-beige door. "Why beige?" she wondered briefly, but the thought left her head for the more important, "Where am I?" There was a sudden realization that she hadn't the faintest clue as to how she arrived in this blue chair, in this beige room with one door and a long window.

A click and then the hum of static filled the air and she jumped, slightly, at an old tube TV powering on above the left corner of the window. Had it always been there? She couldn't be sure. It crossed her mind to move to one seat farther from the TV but suddenly the thought of it made her ill. Instead she stared at the snow on the screen, waiting for some kind of announcement or even just a basic soap opera. She let out an audible sigh.

The static on the screen whirred a moment and then a white screen with friendly black text appeared. It read: "42 Sandra Lang." Her head tilted at the screen. Reading the name sent thoughts racing through her mind.

She danced. She walked. She played catch. She drove a truck. She chased a blonde little boy. She planted a spruce tree. She fell into a pool with her phone in her pocket. She screamed at an old man holding an empty leash. She dug her toes into a beach as the ocean washed up her legs. She hugged a handsome man from below while her toes curled in ecstasy. With each passing moment the memories became more and more vivid, until suddenly she gasped for air. She stood, panicked.

In a single step she was at the glass, pounding on it with both closed fists, "Open up! Where am I?" The glasses rattled back and forth with each strike, but never waivered. "I need to speak to someone! Now!" she pleaded as tears began to wash her cheeks.

A chime came from the TV, her head whipping to look. New friendly text read, "17 Matthew Jones." She looked back to the chairs. A young man in a lacrosse uniform sat in the chair at the far right end of the row. He stared forward. Sandra looked down at herself, she was wearing a white summer dress with vertical black stripes. Her eyes raced, staring at her feet, trying to remember the last thing she remembered before she was in the blue chair.

Suddenly, a window opened in the glass behind her. She jumped again, now standing in the middle of the room. An older woman sat behind the glass; Sandra could barely see her face from where she stood.

"42 Sandra Lang," the old woman called in a raspy voice. Sandra waited a moment, and then took a step forward. As she approached the window she realized the woman was seated far below the window. Behind the old woman sat a plain office, with beige walls and gray cubicles.

"Fill this out," the old woman said, handing a clipboard to Sandra. She took it and the window slid closed. Sandra stood a moment, staring at the glass. She couldn't see the window's seam.

She went back to her chair, and pulled the pen from the top of the clipboard. She began to fill out the paperwork. Name: Sandra Lang. Age: 42. Place of Birth: Denver, Colorado. Mother's name: Deborah. Father's name: Owen. Husband's name: Thomas. Son's name: Rian.

She paused as her eyes pre-read the next question: Cause of death. The line next to it was pre-filled out. She stared in disbelief. She looked up at the glass and then over to the boy in the lacrosse uniform. Why wasn't he having the same panic attack she was?

The window slid open again, "17 Matthew Jones." The boy stood and walked calmly toward the glass. Another chime came from the TV. Another name appeared: "89 Meredith Watts." Sandra's head turned to the right and an extremely elderly black woman sat beside her. The woman was stark naked and her eyes were covered in the white of blindness.

Sandra turned hard to face away from her. She wanted to move chairs, but decided it might be too rude. 17 Matthew Jones turned away from the window, and Sandra took this opportunity to get away from 89 Meredith Watts. She leapt from her seat, and got to the window as fast as she humanly could. "Excuse me! I have a question."

The old woman behind the glass had already begun closing it when she paused and made eye contact with Sandra. "What does it mean, cause of death: slice of chocolate cake from Cascone's?" Sandra asked.

"It means what it says," the old woman said, disgruntled and then slammed the glass. The seam once again, not visible.

She looked back to 17 Matthew Jones and then stormed across the room. He looked up to her briefly and then she ripped his clip board from his hand. Sandra's finger traced down the page, "Cause of death: Lacrosse crosse hit to the rear of the head at the base of the neck."

The glass slid open, "89 Meredith Watts," the old woman said. As 89 Meredith Watts rose from her seat, Sandra slid up against the window, "Please tell me where I am?"

The floor tile beneath Sandra's feet slid to the left, moving her away from the window as 89 Meredith Watts approached to get her clipboard. A harsh buzzer echoed through the small room as the only door to the room swung open. A man in white pants with a white shirt stepped into the room, propping the door open, "17 Matthew Jones. We're ready for you." The man said. 17 Matthew Jones rose from his chair and walked across the room. As he crossed the threshold to the door, violent screams rang out from beyond the opening.

The man made eye contact with Sandra as he began to close the door. "Wait!" she shouted as she ran, swerving around 89 Meredith Watts. Almost scared, the man moved quicker and slammed the door. "What the fuck?!" Sandra wanted to scream, but all that came out was "What the farts?!" She thought that odd and looked down as if accusing her mouth of betraying her.

89 Meredith Watts turned from the window and made her way back toward the chairs. Sandra ran again to the window, "Wait please, tell me where I am!"

The old woman slow-blinked at Sandra from behind her thick-lensed glasses, "Ma'am, what do I look like? Your personal servant. Just wait your turn... Karen," she then slammed the glass.

Sandra's hands tightened around the clip board and she let out a scream. The glass vibrated a little as she dropped to her knees. She threw her clipboard across the room and it bounced against the wall and slid under the blue chairs. She panted for air and waited.

The buzzer rang again as the man in white stepped out. "89 Meredith Watts, we're ready for you now." 89 Meredith Watts stood as the TV chimed again. Sandra didn't bother to look as she cried quietly.

Another woman appeared in a chair at the far left end. As 89 Meredith Watts passed through the doorway the screams echoed out again, filling the room. Sandra turned her head to look as the door shut. The glass slid open "27 Aimi Ito," the old woman said. Sandra watched as the young woman passed, her jeans torn and shirt covered in blood.

The buzzer echoed again. A man in a blue suit stepped through the door and let it close behind him. "42 Sandra Lang," the man said quietly as he extended his hand to her. She looked up at him with puppy dog eyes.

"I'm sorry, Miss Lang. You are in the wrong place," he whispered. His eyes were kind and his suit fit him perfectly. "Allow me to show you the way out?" He asked as Sandra stood.

"Where am I?" she asked, so quietly it was barely audible to herself. He led her to the far wall and reached out and touched the beige paint, "You are in the waiting room. Trust me, it's not where you want to be." The buzzer went off behind him as 27 Aimi Ito walked toward the door. More screams echoed from behind the man in white. He gave her a small smile."

The entire wall began to glow white, "I hope we never see each other again Sandra Lang," the man in the blue suit said. As the light engulfed Sandra she blinked hard as Thomas' face came to focus. He was panting, his eyes dripping with tears as EMTs stood over Sandra, lying on a gurney.