The Waiting Room – part one


The Waiting Room

Part One

There was a dark room with glass doors, the light from the light fixtures was dim and flickering. On the corner there was a window covered with shutters – one could hear cars passing by on the busy corner street. The walls were slightly chipped and painted in light green colour and the floor was covered in grey vinyl material. There were no desks, but there were many chairs. On the other side of the room, there was another door, a wooden one, but it was locked shut.

The room was filled with people. One could imagine that it would be possible to hear a feather falling on the floor, but instead, the quiet whispering and chit-chat echoed out of the room and into the narrow hallways of the building. There was a slight intensity in the air; some people were consumed with their own thoughts; some people were whispering with each other, some arguing, some pacing and others were quiet and unintentionally pail.

One person was ripping recycled papers into tiny pieces forming a small hill on the grey vinyl floor. The room temperature was 18 degrees Celsius, but to some, it felt like 45 degrees Celsius.

In the middle of the crowded room, an unusually tall man was making his way; he was wearing a black trench coat, black crocodile-skinned shoes and sunglasses and was making his way toward the window. He was of thin build and his skin seemed pale gray with a green hue. A slight sewer smell was coming off of him, but no one seemed to notice nor care for it.

His lips were thin and tiny and his breath was light, as light as his footsteps and his composure of making his way slowly toward the window – well calculated. Unnoticed by all, he pushed a few buttons near the window and it turned into a painting of a mid-century woman who was neither contempt nor agreeable – it was more than a simple confusion that she had evoked in her audience.

One man in his 40s dressed in a brown suit and brown pants was reading the newspaper. His hair was dark brown and his eyes were blue as an ocean. His name was Daniel. A simple clicking of the button grabbed his attention and he stood up. The newspaper slipped out of Daniel’s cold, sweaty hand and landed on the floor. He had noticed another button moving on its own, a window disappearing into the thin air and a paining materializing instead. Daniel was baffled. He simply had to cross-examine the painting.

Making his way toward the painting, Daniel bumped into something cold and slimy, slipped on the floor and grabbed and pulled onto the dark trench coat to offset the friction and re-balance. Down looked the unusually tall man, straight into Daniel’s eyes. That was the last time Daniel was seen, his cell phone remained on his chair, still ringing a few times.

>> Look out for The Waiting Room – Part Two.<<


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