The Waiting Room

There was this girl that used to sit in front of me in the waiting room of Doctor Fynn’s office. She would stay on the same rusted chair and wait patiently until her name was called. I didn’t notice her at first because she was so thin that the room seemed to swallow her whole. Most times, she looked like a decoration, a porcelain doll with long blonde hair and shimmering blue eyes, fidgeting with the sleeves of her grey hoodie. She would always sit in the same position, hunched slightly, with her gaze fixed on the only cracked tile of the blinding white floor. I never understood what was so interesting about it. She was always early, or rather, I came in late, as work kept me busy.

I started talking to her when the soft clicking of the bright green door of Doctor Fynn’s office became too bleak, or when the police sirens in my head became too loud. I would ask her regular questions, about her family, her friends, and other worthless small talk. I found out quite a lot about this young teen.

She had a father that always worked. She barely saw him, coming into the apartment late at night with heavy eye bags that made his eyes look smaller. However, she told me that she didn’t blame him, as she still remembered his deep, calming voice that had once soothed her to sleep. She also had a mother, one that looked just like her. But, unlike her, her mother dressed in long gowns and really hated water. In fact, she hated water so much that she replaced the liquid with wine. She was quite popular at school and had many friends. They talked about their dream jobs, boys, makeup, and whatever else teenage girls talked about. She also had a boyfriend that would constantly tell her how pretty she was. I learned that she didn’t live far from here, that she hated guns, and that her least favorite color was white. She also told me about the deep lake that was just a 20-minute walk from here, where she would bathe every Saturday.

However, despite talking almost daily, I never bothered to ask her name, as she also never asked about mine.

And yet she still sat on the rusty chair in the waiting room of Doctor Fynn’s office. So one day I asked her, “Why are you here?” in the same hushed voice she would talk to me in. That was the only time I saw her lift her gaze. The darkness of her irises looked right into my own, and she smiled.

She then replied, “To be seen.”

However, before I could open my mouth, the doctor called for her and she disappeared behind the bright green door. The sound of the usual cheery music Doctor Fynn liked to listen to on his ancient tv was heard for a second, before it all became silent again.

I waited for a long time, or at least long enough for a worker to come into the hall and put ceramic in between the cracks of the only broken tile on the floor. It now looked like any other tile. But I kept sitting there until she finally came back and walked right past me.

“Wait,” I called out, and she stopped.

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“Jane” she replied.

That was the last conversation we ever had.

It was midnight. I was just about to finish my shift when I got dispatched for a welfare check to a rich neighborhood right near Doctor Fynn’s office. A lady with shimmering blue eyes and long blonde hair opened the door for me and my colleague. She was silent and had a lingering smell of alcohol on her breath. Even though she wore a long red gown and looked much older, I could not help but ask:

“Have we met before?”

She looked at me with a confused gaze.

“No, sir, we have not,” she replied in a very loud tone, one that scratched at my ears.

The luxurious apartment was a blinding white color. We checked room by room until we got to a bright green door at the end of the hall. We barged inside; I had my gun out at the time.

There, in a bathtub that was still filled with water, laid a young girl in a grey hoodie surrounded by wine bottles. The hems of her sleeves were stained a dirty red. Her face was clean, looking almost serene with a slight smile. A porcelain doll locked in time.

The loud lady that had opened the door for us screamed and sobbed uncontrollably.

“That is not my daughter!” she repeated over and over again as she was escorted out.

Backup arrived fast enough. The body was covered in a black tarp. On it was a label that read: “Jane Doe.”

People surrounded the yellow tape. A girl cried and said, “But she would have told me!” to another teenager. A boy in the crowd mumbled, “But she was so pretty.”

The sirens buzzed loudly.

I sit in the waiting room of Doctor Fynn’s office. My gaze is lowered, looking at the now missing tile on the floor. I no longer have anyone to talk to, as the rusty chair in front of me has been bare for a month now. All I can do is listen to the clicking of the door and the police sirens that ring in my ears. Between them, I now also hear a hushed tone that tells me everything and nothing at all.

However, that is soon to change, as a man around my age sits hunched slightly on that same rusty chair, his gaze fixed on the wall behind me. I lift my eyes and notice the large eye bags that make his irises look like tiny pieces of coal.

“Do you come here often?” he asks me, his voice sounding deep and calming.

“Yes, I do. Do you?” I reply.

“No, this is my first time here. I am usually too busy with work." he says.

Doctor Fynn calls out my name and I disappear through the bright green door of his office. The doctor speaks kindly, but he only ever stares at the paper he is writing on. Eventually, the doctor lifts his gaze to the old box tv in the room. The once cheery music playing is replaced with a news report. He sees the victim, before continuing to write. He prescribes me… something, and I leave.

I walk past the man still sitting in the chair.

“Wait!” he calls out to me, and I stop.

“What is your name?” he asks.

“John” I reply.

That is the last conversation I will ever have.

I lift my gaze and see a lake.