The Waiting Room

I’ve heard that love makes people do strange things, but grief seems the worse drug.

Rosie has a white-knuckled grip on her armrests and is staring at the ‘Have Hope!’ poster in front of her like she wants to set it on fire, muscles twitching in her jaw. Her knee bounces, heel tapping out an unforgiving rhythm against the cold floor. She has a small stain on her lips that she hasn’t noticed.

Next to her, Matty makes desperate attempts to remove Rosie’s hand from the chair and hold it between her own, tears beginning to pool at the corners of her eyes after the fourth or fifth time she whispers her name – Rosie’s real name, not the nickname that mirrors her smile. Her voice is soft, so unlike the one she uses to win arguments with her snark. It’s one that I’ve never heard her use before, but it does nothing to break Rosie’s furious, stubborn trance. Her fingertips are coloured the same wine as her girlfriend’s lips.

Aleah’s mother is hunched, elbows on knees, massaging her forehead with a hidden expression whilst her husband rubs her back in small circles; face blank as though he sees the emotion in the room and has taken it upon himself to create a void for it all to go. I watch for a few moments and see her mother’s hands start to shake. He pulls her into his chest, and I watch her hidden expression reveal itself under the harsh, artificial light.

My gaze moves on before I really see it.

Daniella is pacing in front of the swinging doors, shoes click-clacking a steady pulse throughout the room. Her face is blank, but her eyes dart towards the doors every few steps before looking quickly away. Occasionally, someone will walk through the doors, and her gaze will snap to them, expression opening for a moment before shutting again when recognition doesn’t spark. She’ll resume her pacing and glances like she’s ashamed to be hopeful. She doesn’t let her head drop, preferring to ignore the red wetness sticking her white dress to her body.

My eyes return to my lap.

I hold Aleah’s cardigan in my hands. It’s covered in blood from where I pressed it to the wound on her chest. I don’t know why I still have it. The longer I look at it, the more it makes me think of her –

– and the man –

– Aleah cradled in Dan’s arms –

– Matty’s fingers flitting between the wound and her face, pushing her hair away from her eyes, spreading the blood there –

– Rosie calling the ambulance and pressing a kiss to Aleah’s forehead –

– driving behind them in her parent’s car, too fast –

– not fast enough –

– and collapsing into these chairs.

We know what the outcome of this will be. And still, we sit.

From the outside, the world is normal.

From the inside, it’s falling apart.

Grief makes people do strange things.

Together, we do the strangest thing of all.

We wait.