The Waiting Room

 

Here's a flash fiction story I wrote for my writing class a few months ago. I've spent too many hours in doctor's and hospital waiting rooms. The waiting room at the Liverpool Cancer hospital is bright and airy -it's actually not a room - but still daunting when you're waiting for a result. I didn't have to wait long! My scan was clear! No new cancer! Out of the waiting room and into the living room for another six months!

The Waiting Room

Bieber huddled next to the leaflet rack in the waiting room is watching the clock. Two minutes since his mum went in. He glances at the leaflets: ‘Look after you Heart’, ‘Healthy Minds’, ‘Cannabis in Pregnancy’- perhaps that’s why his teachers say he’s a bit slow. Bieber doesn’t think he is – he knows and sees a lot more than the grown-ups think - but he doesn’t mind: ‘being slow’ keeps him safe from questions.

Three minutes. Not long until his mother’s screechy voice will be heard yelling at the doctor. She’ll demand more pills, say she’s lost the last prescription, tell him he’s a waste of space, swear…

He takes a quick look round the room. A fat woman with a huge crocodile skin bag is tapping furiously on her phone. Her long greasy hair hides her face. Sitting opposite her is a very thin man dressed in a black suit, taking quick drags from a butt and puffing smoke from the side of his mouth. He looks at Bieber, palms the butt and winks.

Someone is snoring loudly. An old man with a long grey beard and wrinkly face is straddled across two seats near the doctor’s door. His red cardigan is stretched across his huge tummy. Like a sad Santa, Bieber thinks.  A muddy Alsatian, eyes closed, also snoring, is draped across his feet.

Five minutes. Bieber wraps his arms around his chest tightly. Something is wrong, very wrong. It’s too quiet. The snoring has stopped. It’s silent behind the door.

Crocodile woman looks up, hobbles across the room, slaps the old man’s face, shakes the dog.

“He may be asleep,” the smoking man says. He pats the old man’s pockets.

Bieber puts his hands over his ears, screws his eyes shut. He’s seen dead people before. But he isn’t here. He knows nothing. The man is asleep - smoking man knows best.