Write a story about waiting — but don't reveal what's being waited for until the very end.
Through bleary, tired eyes I check the clock once more, hoping time has suddenly passed quicker. Nope, just taking it’s time, quite literally. ‘Good things come to those who wait’, a mantra I’ve passed to others as advice my whole life. It’s hasn’t been a long life, but it’s been full; full of heartbreak, disappointment, being discontent. I’ve found myself to be dissatisfied with every outcome of any situation. I expect too much, I set my hopes too high, and when a plan goes even slightly off track, I want to scrap the whole idea and quit.
A soft, peaceful tune dances delicately through the empty lobby, the only other sound coming from the tick, tick, tick of the clock. I scan the tiles on the floor, desperate to find something to focus on, but I can only seem to pay mind to the ticking. I’m given the opportunity to hear the time pass, but I don’t feel as though it’s gone by quick enough.
The woman at the desk, the only other person sitting in the waiting room with me, hasn’t said a word to me. When I arrived, she offered me a gentle smile, and politely passed the forms to fill out. Not a single word between us. I suppose I found the silence to be more comforting, as we could avoid the awkward conversations societal norms have pressured us to expect. Sure, we could talk about the weather, we could talk politics, or even converse about a good movie we saw, but what does it matter? It won’t change the pattern of my day, let alone my life.
I glance over to her, in hopes she won’t notice. I don’t want to make eye contact. I want to be as anonymous as possible. There’s this unshakable feeling that if she were to catch my gaze, she would know and understand me as a person. She would empathize, maybe show compassion. I guess I don’t want any sympathy any longer.
She’s reading a book I’ve never heard of from an author I don’t recognize. The novel has kept her busy, and she’s been so enveloped in each page. I feel almost a twinge of jealousy. How is she able to focus so diligently on every word, care so deeply about a story that isn’t hers? I see her shift in her seat, her body language insinuating a major plot point has come up. I see her grip on the book tighten, and her free hand lightly touch the page. An audible, and unanticipated, gasp escapes her mouth. She tries to stifle the sigh that follows, but I recognize the look of anguish. She’s connecting to the characters. She has developed her own secret relationship with these people that she knows, but don’t know her.
They couldn’t. How could they? They aren’t real, simply figments of the author’s imagination, molded into people and stuck with names that don’t matter. But isn’t that all of us? We’re conceived and brought into a world we don’t ask for, with names we didn’t choose, and immediately given our identities at birth. We are raised to be who our parents were, but better, unless we disagree with anything they chose to box us in.
I shake my head as discreetly as possible. This is my problem. This is why I’m so unhappy. This woman sitting across from me is so easily swayed into the romanticization of fictional beings that who will no longer affect her when she turns the last page, but I? I’m consumed by anger. Bitterness eats at my very being as though it’s never had a meal. I’m jealous of the book she is holding. The conflict in my soul, do I want pity? Do I want everyone to mind their damn business and let me be? What am I yearning for? AM I yearning for anything?
Tick, tick, tick. I’m still sitting.. waiting. I manage to spy a plant on her desk. It’s green with life. How does she find the time to care so deeply for a plant who offers nothing in return? She probably has a schedule to water and provide sunlight. I bet on weekends she dreads leaving the plant alone on the desk, no one to keep a watchful eye or offer it a sip of water. Maybe had I been nurtured in such a way, I wouldn’t be sitting here. If someone offered me the water I thirsted for, I wouldn’t hold this anger so close behind the walls that I’ve built.
“Stop thinking,” my mind whispers. I want to take heed of its instructions, but it doesn’t stop. It’s never stopped. Words, images, voices flash by over and over. Even when I sleep, there’s no silence. There’s no quiet.
Finally, the door behind the reception desk opens. I can’t quite tell the age of the man on the other side. His hair is littered with grays and whites, but his stride, his stance says he’s never been younger. I almost can’t see his eyes behind his thick framed glasses, but perhaps I prefer that. Again, it reminds me that he, too, is human; capable of feeling. He stands in the entry way silently, and gives a soft nod, as though to indicate it is time to follow him back.
I stand, my legs shaky, but I don’t believe, or don’t want to believe, it’s from nerves. I’ll just keep telling myself that its because I sat so long. I feel like I’ve forgotten how to walk, my head is telling me to move but I feel frozen. “Take a step. This is what you want,” my mind hisses. Still trembling, I make my way towards the door.
As I remind myself that it’s only one foot in front of the other, I pass the desk. I think of the book of which I’ll never know the story. I think of the plant, that will continue to sit and be watered as it needs to survive. Without thinking, my hand reaches out, and before I can realize what I’m doing, my finger tenderly strokes the leaves. I can feel my face twisting in confusion, as my feet continue walking. Suddenly, I’m through the door and the lobby is behind me.
“It was plastic. A fake plant. I hurt my own feelings over a synthetic succulent.” The doctors ushers me through a long corridor, although I suppose I wouldn’t need him to lead me. There’s only one other door at the end of the hallway, so the “Quiet! Treatment in Session!” is a bit ironic, and quite unnecessary. As far as I know, there’s only the three of us here.
He rustles in his pocket for a second before pulling out a key ring. He swiftly, but gently finds the proper key, and unlocks the door. He turns the handle, then extends his arm to prop the door open and allow me in first.
The pod sits motionless, beckoning me to come forward. I know the man is trying to confirm what I already know, but the thoughts in my head are still whirring so loudly, I can’t manage to pay him any mind. It’s as though my soul knows what it’s doing, controlling this vessel of a body, and marches me to the pod. The lining inside appears soft, comfortable. I climb in, close my eyes, and hold my breath.
“Just hold the button”, the doctor whispers, but his voice feels like thunder. The first words I’ve actually heard since I arrived. The last voice I’ll hear. He motions towards the exit, steps backwards, and leaves silently, closing the door behind him.
The lid to the pod slowly lowers, sealing me in. I once again take a deep breath, and place my hand on the button. Suddenly, the voices in my head are screaming at me, reminding me of my worthlessness, my faults, my struggles. They tell me I’m nothing, I deserve nothing. They shriek and squeal, insisting I’m a coward and a failure. I keep my hand on the button.
“How pathetic? This is your only choice?” one of the voices moans. Another responds, “Of course it is, would you expect anything more?”
“Stop. Thinking.” I demand of myself. I can feel my body becoming more weightless. I can no longer move my legs, and the voices become quieter, more distant. I feel as though I’m falling asleep, although I know this slumber will be everlasting, eternal.
I take one last deep breath, let it out, and drift.
