Waiting Room - Chapter One

Chapter One

         It was enormous. Old... It seemed like it was built more than one hundred years ago. Deserted... She didn’t know why, but there was something in the air which made her feel uncomfortable. Either the moths scattered on the walls, or was it the lack of light? Deja vu – she realized, trying hard to push that thought away, given the fact she always hated to feel that way. Quite certain, but lost at the same time. “It’s hard to explain.” – she would answer if you asked.
         That strange place appeared to be a waiting room. Chairs of all kind, deteriorated by their years of use, filled the empty space around her. As she walked between the mixed rows of wood and iron, she closed her eyes and let her fingers recognize the history beneath their touch. A subject she was always bored with at school, but has never felt so real. The virgin wood, not yet varnished; not even sanded, let her savor the energy of its source. The roughness of the tears and loosened fabrics on some of them, contrasted with the softness felt by her open hand as she slid it over their tapestry. But once she reached the metal surface, she took away her hand and held it still in front of her face. It wasn’t the touch of cold metal against her fingers what made her stop, but the way corrosion feels beneath your skin. How it sticks to the core points of your fingerprints and makes you cringe. As she opened her eyes, she got lost on the black and orange stains left on her by the rust, letting the memories take their course. Because rust has the power of showing you the past. It can either save your life or consume it as a consequence of its chemical reaction.

         “Grandma?” The sweet and familiar voice of a little girl called.
         “Yes dear.” Words accompanied by the scent of beans boiling in a pot, came from the kitchen, not too far away from where she was standing. How amazing it is to witness the interaction between innocence and years and years of wisdom. In some of the cases, innocence can prevail.
         “Can you take me to the park?” She asked, even though she already knew the answer to her question.
         “The park? Don’t tell me you’re snooping through grandpa’s things again. How many times do I have to tell you that room is off limits,” She replied while releasing a silver spoon on top of the stove. Its metallic bang echoed through the little girl’s ears. A sound she well recognized as a warning of her getting ready to approach her venue. How come sounds are more powerful than words? They can make you change the course of your actions. If she was right, she had about 15 seconds to leave the room, before being caught.

         To stand in front of the windows overlooking the patio, was her favorite way of spending the time at her grandparent’s house. Of course, other than spinning around while sitting on her grandpa’s chair, with the help of its wheels. Around … like the hands on the clocks hanging from the walls. Tick, tock, tick, tock! She could hear their repetitive sound even from a long distance. Because, you see, he was a jeweler. A clockmaker. She loved to watch him sitting on his chair wearing those squared and funny magnifying glasses over his head. They made his eyes look as big as a half dollar coin. She was so impressed by such an illusion, that she used to stand in front of a mirror opening her eyes as wide as she could, trying to replicate such an effect. But her efforts were always in vain. She just laughed, and didn’t dare to disturb him. While in that room, he almost never pronounced a single word, and no matter from where you glanced at him, you’d catch him staring down at the table with metal tweezers in both hands, while arranging tiny pieces of iron into the back of an open wrist watch. Fascinating!

         As the old lady dried her hands on the towel hanging from the fridge, she jumped and let herself fall into a sitting position onto the wheeled chair, which with the strength of her jump, rolled its way down the long corridor till it was stopped by the hands of her grandmother as it interrupted her path. “Hi!” she saluted by elongating the squeaky sound of the i at the end of the monosyllable.
         “Don’t look at me like that, ’cause I know exactly what you were doing.”
         “But Grannie, why can’t you take me to the swings?”
         “The swings, huh? Come!” with tenderness, she picked her up and carried her towards the old set of windows on the back wall of the house. She loved how everything looked from way up there. “You see that gate?” her grandmother asked while pointing towards what she assumed was an entrance all covered by climbers and weeds.
         “Mhm.”
         “Well honey, that gate in the backyard is closed. I lost the key for the lock, long before you were born, and it has remained closed since then. No need to break it loose. There’s only weed and bricks on the other side. Nothing of value. Besides, that set of swings is so old, they are all covered in rust. I don’t think it would be safe for you to even touch them. You understand?” She never did. The only thing she knew as a fact was that rust, like salted water on iron, corroded every single one of her thoughts.

         With a rising pulse she started to examine every hidden detail in the room. From moths hiding in corners, or climbing the walls, to evidence of their scales, scattered all over the floor. They seemed to wait for something. As she walked, her legs felt numb, making her move at the same pace as a diver walking underwater. It was the brightness of her beautiful eyes the only contrast between the pale colored walls. The ceiling appeared to be higher than most, approximately 12 to 15 feet in height. The smell of old clothes and that of passing rain, filled the room, bringing a sense of cold to the atmosphere. A thing that made her rub her hands together, in order to keep warm.
         The word Information escaped her lips as she read a sign painted in red letters which hanged from behind a counter on her right. A bell and a small version of the baskets usually seen at an old house, rested on top. Only one number was inside, and being curious as she was, she took that little piece of paper in her hand and rang the bell in search of a reasonable explanation. But instead of an answer, a stampede of people stepped in through the main doors, turning that once deserted place into a crowded chamber. Now the moths were flying everywhere. Confused, she looked for a place to sit. Luckily enough, she saw a table with a pair of empty chairs at the end of the room. With difficulty, she made her way through the crowd and sat down. The chair beside her was still empty. An innumerable collection of staples decorated the table, reminding her of those bulletin boards she used to see at school. Messages of all kind covered every inch of it. Some of them read: Esther was here ’15 … Still waiting ’76.
         People kept coming in. Some preferred to walk, while others sat still. A group of them formed a line in front of the counter. After talking to the woman in charge, they returned to their previous activity, or just crossed one of the doors on each side of the counter. From all the people in line, only one caught her attention. He was approximately 70 years old. As soon as he returned to his chair, he started fiddling with a pack of cigarettes. From a distance, she could feel the weight of his pain.

         I could hardly recognize him. That man, once full of life, lay still on a hospital bed. I could feel his body trembling under the palm of my hand. I bended down to kiss his forehead, as his eyes, which seemed to scream for help, met mine. That was the first time I saw my grandfather cry, without the evidence of tears in his eyes. Eyes I remember wide open and full of life, now stayed forever closed, buried under piles of dirt and dust. For years I’ve wondered, if I’d grown deaf to the ticking of the clocks still hanging on the walls. A ‘tick tock’ muted way too soon, leaving behind an empty chair, and the rust from the broken pieces he could not yet restore.

         “Excuse me?” a masculine voice interrupted her thoughts. Alarmed, she turned and noticed a young man sitting beside her. He was heavy built and dark skinned. His eyes carried with a sparkle which made him look attractive in despite of the cement stained all over his shirt. With a deep voice he said;
         “Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”
         “It’s okay,” she said, “I was - -.”
         “Muttering tick tock?” He finished her sentence.
         “I was? How embarrassing,” And while looking down, trying to hide the red building on her cheeks, she noticed the cement on both his ripped jeans and boots, left untied. “I was just lost in thought, that’s all.”
         “No need to be. With all this waiting, it makes sense if we all started ticking,” He ended with a smirk to what she corresponded with a serious look in her eyes. The awkwardness of the moment made him rephrase his words. “I mean, the wait seems never ending, right? Forgive me, I didn’t mean to be so rude. My name is Francisco and you are?”
         “Christina.”
         “Well, well, well!” He repeated with excitement, and after standing up, he extended his hand to her, and added; “It’s been a real pleasure to meet you Christina, but it looks like my turn is up. Wish you tons of luck.”
         “But - -wait. What do you mean?” concerned, she asked.
         “Don’t you worry! Just wait and see,” He replied before crossing the door on the right side of the counter. Puzzled, she stared for a while at the moths who now flew towards the highest point in the ceiling, where a lamp shined bright. As the scales from their wings floated in mid air, she opened her fist revealing that little piece of paper still resting on her hand. <<68>> She lifted her gaze once more, and waited.

Inside Flap

         Christina finds herself stuck in a hole, as her nightmares become endless. While others think she's losing her mind, she tries to escape from all the pain and confusion, only to find herself waiting at a strange and old room. Lost between what is real or just an illusion, she'll seek the answers needed in order to survive. Will therapy be one of them? Will the nightmares ever end? As she stares at the moths flying all around the room, she holds on to the number in her hand, and waits.

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A novel by WJ Cintron

© Copyright Wineska J. Cintron Conde