Tick, Tock

Tick, tock, tick, tock, tick, tock. 

The clock chimes on endlessly as you wait for the second hand to be directly in the center of the hour hand. There it goes! That was satisfying. You can’t take your eyes away, hypnotized by the emerald green background and constant movement of the black minute hand. Another minute passes as the second hand lands on top of the hour hand. This time, the second hand isn’t precisely on top. That’s disappointing.     

“Mr. Reese?” Your head snaps up, the deep voice breaking your trance. You hadn’t realized your head was tilted so far to the side. Mr. Reese, a large, bulky man with a hideous mustache stands up from a chair to your left. You scrunch your nose at the unpleasant whiff of cheeseburger coming from his massive body. Mr. Reese stomps over to the man with the bass voice and navy blue scrubs, who holds open the door. He smiles and nods at the patient, making a note on his clipboard before closing the door behind the pair.

You turn back to the clock, seeing that you just missed the next minute. Sighing, you adjust yourself in the over sized chair, leaning back against the velvet cushions whose fabric reminds you of cringe-worthy, shameless airport carpet. You look around to see four other people scattered across the perimeter of the room, still waiting with you. The ticking of the clock seems to grow even more prominent as you glance at it once again.

Tick, tock, tick, tock, tick, tock.

Becoming bored with the entertainment of a clock, you turn your head to the nearest person to your right, nestled in the corner on the other side of the window. She tucks her long red hair behind her ear, then her thumbs fly across her phone. She frowns at the phone, her thumbs freezing in the air. With a small huff, she stows her phone face down next to her faded, ripped jeans. Her flaming hair is flicked behind her white t-shirt as she crosses her legs grumpily. Suddenly being aware of your stares, her lightly freckled face meets yours. Embarrassed, you quickly avert your eyes, pretending to be admiring a nearby watercolor, dancing with chaotic, shapeless strokes. 

As you wonder what she could be so irritated about, you decide to come up with a story for her. Her name is Millie. She’s 26 years old and is an ambitious young woman, but her job is hurting her relationship with her boyfriend. Her boyfriend thinks she should spend more time with him, and she’s trying to explain her point of view, but he’s not being rational. After getting tired of their argument over text, she simply stops responding and sets her phone down. Maybe you should have given Millie a reassuring smile when she looked over, you think. Something to ease the burden of an argument. 

Your vision moves past the watercolor and glass entrance doors to someone reading a magazine from the center coffee table. A smile tugs at the corners of your mouth, as you realize the outfit of this elderly man reminds you of your own grandpa’s fashion choices. His right foot taps his recently polished dress shoes against the floor, sending the ends of his black pants waving slightly. His blue and white plaid shirt and burnt orange sweater ties the whole look together horribly. He adjusts his reading glasses occasionally to get a better look at his magazine, and he silently mouths the words as he reads. His shaggy white hair is surprisingly thick, as if his head reminisces of better hair days.

You think of a world for him. His name’s Arthur, and his wife, the love and light of his life, passed away five years ago. He met another elderly widow last week and is going on a date with her tonight. He’s trying to dress to impress, but maybe you should tell Arthur that outfit isn’t impressing anybody. You think about what you might suggest if you get the chance. Nevertheless, maybe his date will like the effort. He’s absorbing himself in a magazine he will forget about two minutes after setting it down. He’s just trying to distract his nerves.

Before you can observe the others, a red phone on the receptionist’s desk begins to ring, startling the living daylights out of you. You look to your left at the phone, but you remember the receptionist left the room a few minutes ago. No one else in the room seems to care. It pains you to endure the endless ringing . . . ringing . . . ringing. Just when you feel you can’t stand it any longer, the ringing mercifully ends. You sigh with relief, unaware of the tenseness that perforated your body while the phone controlled you. Glancing at the worn, scratched phone, it stares menacingly back, dripping with bright red blood from the ears of its last victim.

You shutter, forcing your eyes to unglue from the phone, even though the red is still haunting from your peripheral vision. 

The last two people in the waiting room look like a mother and son. The son is probably about eight years old, and hunches over his little picture book, his index finger intently following the words. His mother looks over at him, trying to smooth a loose piece of his dirty blonde hair back into place, but to no avail. She continues to read something from a manila envelope, probably an important file, you guess. The boy’s short legs kick in the air, giving flashes of red and blue from his tennis shoes. His brightly colored comic book t-shirt clashes terribly with his green shorts, but you respect the small piece of independence his mother gave him that day.

In contrast, the mother had unmistakably chosen her outfit with care, with her light blue polka dotted blouse complimenting her beige pants and white sandals. Her diamond earrings sparkle as she moves her head once again to her son and back to the file, her blonde curls gently dancing around her face.

Out of nowhere, a wall of fear hits you, as the thought crosses your mind that the phone might ring again. Trying not to think of another agonizing eternity of ringing, you focus on the two people in front of you.

You decide their names are Ellie and Ian. Maybe Ellie is trying to care for all her son’s needs after a difficult divorce. Ian is her only consolation and she loves him with her entire soul, yet feels inadequate to raise a child on her own. Ian is dealing with bullies at school, and sometimes is too embarrassed to tell his mom about the names he’s called. Nevertheless, he feels safe in her presence and is grateful to have two close friends at school. The urge to hug them both suddenly wells up inside you, but you force yourself to stay in your seat. 

Looking to the clock once more, you check the time, instead of using it for entertainment. You have been sitting in the waiting room for about six minutes. Only six minutes? That can’t be right. Surely I’ve been waiting for at least twenty minutes, you think. 

How long will you be in here? The room suddenly feels quite small as you feel your breathing speed up. What if you’re here forever? No, that’s possible, you try to reassure yourself, but these efforts are futile. You look wildly around as the walls slowly come closer and closer together, and you shut your eyes hard. You lift your legs onto the chair and hug your knees to your chest, trying to will your body to shrink.

Tick, tock, tick, tock, tick, tock.

The clock is all you can hear now, growing louder than your gasping breaths, louder and louder, as you tremble and squeeze yourself together even tighter, expecting to feel the walls pinching you any second. Panic continues to build as you clutch the sides of your head. A piercing scream cuts through the air.

Everything goes black. 

Tick, tock, tick, tock, tick, tock. 

The clock chimes on endlessly as you wait for the second hand to be directly in the center of the hour hand. There it goes! That was satisfying. You can’t take your eyes away, hypnotized by the emerald green background and constant movement of the black minute hand. Another minute passes as the second hand lands on top of the hour hand. This time, the second hand isn’t precisely on top. That’s disappointing.

“Mr. Reese?” Your head snaps up, the deep voice breaking your trance. You hadn’t realized your head was tilted so far to the side. Mr. Reese, a large, bulky man with a hideous mustache stands up from a chair to your left. You scrunch your nose at the unpleasant whiff of cheeseburger coming from his massive body. Mr. Reese stomps over to the man with the bass voice and navy blue scrubs, who holds open the door. He smiles and nods at the patient, making a note on his clipboard before closing the door behind the pair.

You watch the closed door for a moment, wondering why that scene is so familiar. You brush the thought off as quickly as it came, and you turn back to the clock, seeing that you just missed the next minute. Sighing, you adjust yourself in the over sized chair, leaning back against the velvet cushions whose fabric reminds you of cringe-worthy, shameless airport carpet. You look around to see four other people scattered across the perimeter of the room, still waiting with you. The ticking of the clock seems to grow even more prominent as you glance at it once again.

Tick, tock, tick, tock, tick, tock.