The Waiting Room Object Show Novels & Stories

I tell her feeling my cheeks heat in embarrassment. She chuckles. “Yes. No reason to be embarrassed. If you go in there through the packhouse it gets confusing.” She linked her arm through mine and led the way. We went down hallways and through doors I never would have guessed. This is definitely confusing. We make it to a set of double doors and she pushes on them. We enter a white sterile hallway that I know belongs to the infirmary. We walk a little ways further and turn a corner into an open waiting room area. I see Dev, Dawn, Evan, Blake, Nora and Bailey all sitting on the chairs waiting to hear from the doctor. We walk up and I sit in the empty chair next to Bailey and wrap my arms aro

He slid the obsidian visor over his eyes. LOGIN DETECTED. > WELCOME BACK, WRAITH. > SYNCING SQUAD DATA... The white room dissolved. Ren materialized in the Lobby. It wasn't a menu screen. It was a digital penthouse floating in a purple nebula. The floor was transparent, showing galaxies swirling beneath his boots. Two other figures were already there, waiting for him by a holographic tactical table. "Look who finally decided to wake up," a voice crackled. Ren looked at the speaker.

Nothing more. The waiting room was tucked at the end of a quiet corridor, far enough from the main hospital wing that the noise of the day faded into a low hum behind me. A soft instrumental version of some pop song played from hidden speakers, meant to calm the nerves of the women sitting around me. It didn't calm me. I glanced at the clock, then at the door, then back at the clock again, unable to settle on anything for more than a few seconds at a time.

"Come. There is a room off the boardroom where you can wait. You will be able to see them before they see you." The waiting room had a glass wall. That was the cruelest, most perfect detail of the whole morning. Someone had designed this space, years ago, so an executive could observe a meeting before entering it, and now I sat behind that glass in my chair and watched the board of Hart Global assemble to decide my future, none of them knowing I was studying every face.

ADRIAN The private waiting room smelled like antiseptic and stale coffee. The beeping of machines somewhere down the hall was constant, almost fucking mocking. This was the Eastwoods’ medical practice, and we were kept on the private floor while waiting for some kind of word on his state.

My blue-grey eyes stared back at me, asking, ‘What are you doing? As the doors opened, the elevator music turned into a lighter jazzy ambiance. The waiting room looked like something out of a magazine, with luxurious deep sofas, glass tables and gorgeous plants. My eyes immediately went to the generic contempo art hanging in the main room, an imitation Jackson Pollack—not half bad, but not my style. The receptionist, who could have doubled as a runway model, looked at me with her headset. “May I help you?” “I’m here to see William Shaw.”

“Of course, why don’t you take a seat over there and I’ll let you know when she’s ready.” Smiling back at her I tip my head and take a seat in over padded black vinyl chair in the far corner, pulling a kid's comic book from the well-stocked shelf to flick through. The waiting room is surprisingly cozy, with warm tan walls with pictures of the pack's infirmary and those that have worked here through the years in sleek frames on all the walls.

“This is something I need to do alone.” “Okay. I’ll be right here. Text me when you’re done.” I nod. Force myself to open the door. Step out into the cold Boston morning. The waiting room is small. Clean. Generic medical posters on the walls about nutrition and exercise and preventive care. A woman with a toddler sits in the corner. The kid is playing with blocks, completely oblivious to the anxiety radiating from everyone else in the room. I check in at the desk. Fill out paperwork. Try to keep my hands from shaking as I write my name, address, and insurance information.

Taylor Kennedy’s nurse greets us in the hallway, then signals a nearby doctor to join us. They escort us to a private waiting room. As the lights flick on, I see four chairs along the wall, a side table with a lamp, a TV mounted on a far wall, and pamphlets scattered on a coffee-table. I’m wheeled near a chair; they prompt Jackson to sit next to me. The latching of the door sends an ominous chill through my body.

The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed softly, casting a stark glow on the sterile walls. As I walked down the corridor, I could hear the muffled sounds of conversations echoing in the distance. When I finally reached the visiting area, I saw a row of booths lined up against the wall, each separated by a clear glass partition I could see a few other visitors waiting, their expressions a mix of anticipation and anxiety. I settled into one of the booths, my heart racing as I picked up the phone. Through the glass, I could see the familiar face on the other side; Theo.