The waiting room...

The door creaked shut behind the girl as she stepped into the waiting room, clutching her school bag tightly in one hand. The smell of vanilla hung in the air, and a faint hum emanated from the above overhead lights. She glanced around. The waiting room looked just like any other doctor's office she had been in. Worn chairs lined the meticulously painted pale green walls, and faded, well-read magazines strewn on the coffee table. The girl traced her eyes along the walls to an enormous clock which ticked slowly, each second dragging on as if the room itself was caught in a time loop.

At the reception desk sat a woman with deep red lipstick, her face though was expressionless as she clicked away at a keyboard. Her eyes darted upward as she greeted the girl. "What's your name, my love?" she crooned.

The girl hesitated, her other hand pressed tight, clutching her stomach. "Clara. Clara Holloway," she whispered.

The receptionist typed her name, then gestured to the empty seats. "Take a seat, sweetheart. We'll call you when it's your turn. Okay?"

Clara nodded, taking a slow, measured step toward the chairs. Her stomach churned, and she tightened her hand even more against it to try and calm it. There were a few other people in the waiting room. An old man with kind eyes sat closest to her. His hands rested on his lap, folded neatly over a worn jacket, the sort her grandfather used to wear. His thin lips curved into a soft smile as she approached.

"Mind if I sit here?" Clara asked.

"Not at all, dear," the old man said, his voice warm and raspy, like a fire crackling on a frosty night.

Clara sat down, adjusting her school bag on her lap. They sat in silence for a few minutes, the old man staring at the clock, his fingers tapping softly on his knee. Clara felt the urge to say something, but she just clung tightly to her stomach and looked down at her feet.

"What are you here for?" the old man asked gently, gazing at her. His eyes, wrinkled and well-worn, like an old well-loved book.

Clara hesitated, her fingers pressing a little harder on her stomach. "Just… " she mumbled. She didn’t want to explain, didn’t want to give words to the dull ache pulsing beneath her palm. Instead, she squirmed slightly in her chair, her mind wandering over everything…

The old man nodded. "Ah, I see—no need to explain. I’m here for… well, old age, I suppose. You know how it is—things start wearing down..." He chuckled softly, half in amusement, half in appeasement, trying to put Clara’s mind at rest.

"How long have you been waiting?" Clara asked, her voice quiet. She didn't know why, but the question seemed important. The room felt like time stood still, the only thing marking its passage being the enormous clock that hung upon the wall.

"Not sure," he said, his brow furrowing like a well-ploughed field. "They're busy today, I think. A lot of young ones in. But you’ll be fine. They’re always very kind here, I've heard."

Clara swallowed, glancing at the receptionist, who sat motionless behind her desk. There were others in the room now, patients who hadn’t been there when she arrived. Some looked anxious, others calm, but no one spoke.

The old man leaned back in his chair, watching the others come and go as the receptionist called out names. One by one, people stood up and walked through the door beside her desk. Clara stared at the clock, but the clock on the wall didn’t seem to move. The ticking, however, grew louder in her ears, which was overtaken by a high-pitched buzz. The old man glanced over at Clara.

She tried to listen through the noise as he spoke. “Get down!” he said, his face shocked.

Clara pushed her eyes closed and gently shook her head to quieten the sounds. Finally, the buzzing subsided.

"I said, is your mother out of town?" the old man asked again affectionately.

"At work," Clara replied, shifting in her seat. "She… she doesn’t know I’m here yet. They said they were going to call her." Her voice wavered, and she squeezed her school bag, feeling the worn straps bite into her palm.

The old man gave her a long, thoughtful look. "It’s hard, isn’t it? When you're young, parents think you’ve got all the time in the world. But time slips away, faster than they’d think." He sighed, glancing back at the clock. "Don't worry, though. You’ll be fine."

Clara nodded, but the knot in her stomach tightened. She could still feel the ache beneath her hand, growing sharper with each passing minute. The room felt colder now, and Clara looked around at the other children. A chill ran down her spine, but the old man’s steady presence kept her grounded.

"I’m a little scared," Clara admitted, her voice barely a whisper.

The old man smiled lovingly, his eyes softening. "Come now, you’re going to be fine. He’s very nice, you know. He’ll put your mind at rest. I promise. " His tone was soothing, like a lullaby in the distance.

Clara frowned, confused by his words, but before she could ask what he meant, the receptionist’s voice cut through the air. "Mr. Hargrove?"

The old man straightened, his joints creaking as he stood. “You can go in now Mr. Hargrove,” she said.

He looked down at Clara, patting her on the shoulder with a tenderness that made her heart ache. The old man began shuffling towards the door next to the receptionist, he turned ever so slightly towards her as he passed, "Watch over that one, okay? Poor thing," he said somberly.

The receptionist nodded as he made his way through the door, disappearing from sight. She turned back to the room she presided over and looked over towards Clara.

“Are you okay, love?” she asked.

Clara looked at her, glassy-eyed, before nodding sluggishly. She slid her eyes to look down and carefully lifted her hand for the first time since the pain began. The blood seeped through the bullet's entrance wound in her stomach. Her eyes welled up as she glanced back up at the receptionist.

“I want my mum,” she said, her voice trembling.