Waiting Room

         I am alone in a room. I'm sitting on one of five wooden chairs, all lined up against the wall. I have been sitting here for twenty minutes? Thirty? The nurse took my wristwatch and my phone before she led me here, and there isn't a clock or window to measure the time. In fact the room is bare except for the chairs, two identical wooden doors, one to my right through which I entered, and another to my left. The light comes from a single lamp on the ceiling.

         I probably should have expected something like this when I signed up as a psychological test subject. I still don't know what the test is, I simply got a phone call asking if I could make it here. The nurse wouldn't say anything either, she just asked for whatever might be in my pockets and told me to wait.

         It makes me uncomfortable thinking that my every move is probably being watched. I haven't been able to spot any cameras, but I'm pretty sure there's one around here somewhere, cleverly concealed. Wanting to stretch my legs, I stand up and take a stroll around the room. If there had been any, this would be the moment to stare idly at photographs and cheap paintings. Instead, I discreetly sweep the room for cameras. Absolutely none. Taking a deep breath, I act as if I was terribly bored and sit back down on the chair

         A few more moments pass when the lamp overhead unexpectedly switches off. I feel a stab of fear in the darkness, and a single thought crosses my mind. 'Run'. Almost immediately, the lights flicker back on and I'm forced to laugh at my own silliness.


         More time has passed and I'm still sitting in this damn room. I've paced, I've sat, I've dozed off, but still nothing. I tried opening the doors only to find them locked. Though I didn't make much of it at the moment, it's starting to make me uneasy. I still can't find a trace of any cameras, I've searched through corners, doorknobs, I even searched the lamp, but there's nothing. And this thought that keeps nagging at me more and more frequently, 'Get out of here'.

         I lay down across the chairs and stare at the ceiling. There's no point being afraid. This probably is the test itself. And though I'm keenly aware of this, I'm also keenly aware of a hollow in the pit of my stomach. 'Run'.


         A shuffling behind me spurs me to my feet, and I turn to find Polaroid sliding under the door to me right. A woman, a rather beautiful brunette, with shiny wavy curls is smiling up at me from the picture. Her arms are by her side, a smile on her lips that looks a little uneasy, but sincere. While she is remarkably attractive, I fail to see why they would hand me this photograph. I walk back to the chairs, lay down and close my eyes.

         As soon as I do, I bolt back upright. Why would I imagine such a thing? For an instant there I could perfectly picture the girl tied up to a chair, arms bound behind her back, gagged, blood dripping from the corners of her mouth, choking. 'Get out of here.'
         I can't. Both doors are locked, there are no windows, and I'm not about to plead for help to a bunch of doctors with notepads, waiting to see me crack. Once again I stand up and pace around the room. 'Run'.

         I try the door to the right again. Still locked. I press my ear to the wood, but I hear nothing. I try it on the other door. This time I hear something. Some sort of hammering, like a drum, or the beat of a heart. Thump. Thump. Thump. I pull away from the door. I can still hear the sound in my head, thump, thump, and behind it, I keep thinking 'Get out of here.'

         I stay standing there, the thumping still in my head. It's getting louder, and that's when I realize it's not inside my head, it's coming from the door, and it's getting closer. I take a step back and immediately I'm plunged into darkness. The lights are not turning on, and my heart is hammering in my chest. I'm against the wall and I keep repeating to myself 'This isn't real, get out, they're playing with you, run, it's a test, get out get out get out!'

         Shakily I bring my right hand up to my face to wipe away the sweat on my forehead and realize I've crumbled up the Polaroid. Unsteadily I smooth it out to see that the woman is no longer smiling. She's chained to a chair, blood crusted around her mouth, her eye sockets empty, dead, she's dead. The lights go out again and I drop the photograph, and crouch in a ball on the floor, the thumping growing louder and louder.

         It's pitch black, I can't see a thing, the sound is getting more frantic, like someone's pounding on the door, over and over and over again. Then it stops. And the silence is even more terrifying. Then a high-pitched scream coming from the other side of the door, and the door slams open, and footsteps run towards me. The lights turn back on and it's the woman, her face covered in blood, screaming, and I'm out of breath and paralyzed, I can't do anything, I can't run, I can't move, I can't shout.

         The lights flicker again and she's on her back on the floor, passed out. She looks like the first picture I saw, her shiny locks, her face clean, not a single speck of blood. The thumping is gone, the screams are gone, and my mind is blank.


         I crouch next to her, checking for breathing, and relax once I realize she is. Everything is as if nothing happened. I grab her hand seeking warmth, reassurance, when I feel she's holding on to something. I pull it out of her hand and see a picture of myself, a picture I can't remember ever posing for. I'm standing with my arms by my side, smiling nervously. Desperately, I get up and bang on the door.