Write Brained Girl

I have no idea where I was going with this one. Should I pick it back up? See where it takes me?

The Waiting Room

The room is so quiet, every sound echoes like thunder. It is a torture chamber. I glance at the ancient face looking down at me. The jagged scar splitting the glass in two gives it a warped quality. 11:59. Twelve hours and this year will be history. Done.

I look at the boy sitting across from me, hands fidgety in his lap, feet bouncing at the ends of legs sticking out from couch cushions too deep for his small frame. He stares back at me silently. I look at the door. The door for which we are all here. The door through which we will all enter [at midnight]. The door from which there is no escape.

The chime makes me jump. The face glowers above me with hands converged at due-north. 12:00. Twelve hours ’til the end.

The others in the room shift uncomfortably. The rub of cloth against skin, the scratching of breath against the stagnant air is deafening, garish. I feel inverted; as though I’m all flesh and nerves on the outside. Every tick seems to claw at my brain. I think I am slowly going mad.

The boy’s feet stop bobbing. I am suddenly aware of how anxious the repetitive movement was making me. I breathe out; look at him; offer a polite smile. I can’t help but think he’s why we’re all here. I also feel like I should know who he is. But I don’t. At least, I don’t think I do. . .

His eyes glance down at the planner sitting in my lap. It lays open at December 31 / January 1. He stares at the red ribbon. Place-keeper, marker of time. It runs down the crease between days like a trickle of blood. I think how many people will be celebrating the birth of a new year. To us, it is not a fresh, new beginning; it is a tired, old death.

I clear my throat and loosen my tie a bit. Leaning forward slightly, I whisper, “what’s your name, kid?” His eyes still on the ribbon, he whispers back, “I don’t know.” Raising my eyebrows, I sit back again. Well, I guess that’s as good a reason as any to be here.

I extend my planner out toward him. “Do you want to hold it?” His eyes finally break away from the little stream of red long enough to see if I’m serious. His face holds curiosity, doubt, hope, mistrust. He has shadows in his look far too dark for his young age. I can tell he thinks it’s a trick, so I set the book down on the low table between us and push it gently closer to him, then retreat back to my chair.