Hell is a Waiting Room

She detested waiting rooms. All of them. Even the most pleasantly appointed rooms were awful and no one was ever glad to be there. They were always swirling whirlpools of anxiety and anticipation as people waited for whatever fate would befall them upon the calling of their name.

This room was the worst of them all.

The woman glanced to the man seated at her left; his bloodshot eyes slowly rose to meet hers. He gently squeezed her hand, which he’d been holding limply ever since their arrival. She was sure her husband agreed with her.

The lights of the room were harsh and bright; a fluorescent bulb flickering with an incessant buzz in the corner only added to the unpleasantness. There were sad attempts to bring life to the dreary beige walls in the form of cheap floral artwork and cheery bulletin boards depicting smiling faces and inspirational quotes. A clock gave a mighty attempt to push time forward on the wall of the room, but the second hand remained stuck at 59 seconds, creating the impression that the next minute would never arrive, no matter how long they waited.

Her husband’s eye seemed to twitch in time with the second hand of the stuck clock as she stared at him.

*Tick* *Twitch*

*Tick* *Twitch*

*Tick* *Twitch*

His gaze dropped to the small pink coat in her lap and the weight of that look forced her eyes down as well. She was immediately drawn to the smattering of red down the left lapel of the jacket. That won’t do, this is Sophie’s favorite jacket, after all; she’ll be so upset if it’s become stained.

The woman began to try and rub the red away, to no avail. With tears forming in her eyes, she scrubbed harder and harder at the fabric, her movements frantic and jerky. With a look of pure desperation, she looked into her husband’s eyes once more. He saw and he knew. Of course he understands, this is Sophie’s favorite jacket, after all.

In response to his wife’s silent plea, the man released her hand and walked over to the nearby drinking fountain to wet a tissue under the running water. As he returned to her side and handed her the damp tissue, he could see his own desperation mirrored in her gaze. Somehow, if they could simply get the red out, then everything would be alright.

The woman mutely agreed with him by resuming her efforts to clean the stained jacket. She scrubbed and scrubbed, until the now lightly pink tissue fell apart in her hands, its remains littering the waiting room floor. It won’t come out. The woman’s panic began to rise and her tears rained down her face onto the pink and red fabric in her hands. The red just won’t come out. Even the strength of a mother’s tears were no match for the crimson droplets marring the coat.

A warm arm wound its way around her shoulders and drew her into a firm embrace. The woman’s husband held her close as she wept. And though he flinched every time the door of the room opened, only for a name not their own to be called, his hope never faltered, nor his resolve. He would be strong for his wife. He would be strong and everything would be alright.

It was his mantra over the following minutes, the interminable minutes in that terrible room, kept in time by the ticking of the eternal second of the broken clock.

I will be strong.

*Tick*

And everything will be alright.

*Tick*

I will be strong.

*Tick*

And everything will be alright.

…

…

…

The lack of sound, of the tick that had defined his very existence ever since he'd entered this room, reverberated through the man’s psyche. The silence was as loud as thunder. The clock had finally given its last and had stopped entirely. The next minute would never come.

With a dire sense of foreboding, the man looked down at his wife who was staring at the clock, first in confusion, then in a dawning horror. Her dread matched his own.

Just as he was about to offer some vague words of reassurance to the woman trembling in his arms, the door of the waiting room opened.

A middle-aged man in a shining white coat entered, his eyes sweeping the room until they landed on the couple clutching one another as tightly as the woman clutched the little pink jacket. Those eyes fell upon them like a gavel pronouncing their final judgement, filled with pity and regret, but the man and the woman couldn’t see it - refused to see it.

Yet as the man approached and began to shake his head sadly, side to side, they finally understood. The doctor began to speak but the words went unheard as the couple’s world crashed down around them.

Nothing would ever be alright again.