The Waiting Room Play Novels & Stories

She let that sit for a second, then reached over and squeezed his knee once before he pulled out of the space. The waiting room, when they got there, was nothing like the ones he was used to — brighter, louder, a scattering of couples in every stage of the same process, a toddler running determined laps around the chair legs while a woman clearly past her due date watched with the exhausted patience of someone counting down actual days on her fingers. Zachary sat with his hands in his pockets, looking faintly displaced, like a man who'd wandered into the wrong building and was too polite to leave.

, I said, standing up from the stool. "But you didn't even eat at all. You just played with it" she stated. "I'm not hungry, I'll eat something later", I replied, putting on my coat and head out. Walking towards the diner, I can't help but feel weary as I can feel being watched. I tried my best to ignore it but I just can't. What if it's Leonardo again? I just hope Vincent sees the paper I left at the bedside table. As I reached the diner, I hastily went inside not wanting something to happen again. My small frame immediately relaxes the moment I saw my co-workers. There were still no customers since it's still early.

I was tired of exiting the group already. I sat in the hard plastic chair of the general hospital waiting room and I read all of them. Then I turned my phone face down on my knee. The waiting room felt sad. A man three chairs away was sleeping with his mouth open. A woman near the door kept bouncing a baby on her knee even though the baby was not crying. A television mounted on the wall was playing a news channel with the volume too low to hear. I did not cry. I bit the inside of my cheek and I counted. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. I got to fifteen before the burning behind my eyes settled into something quieter. Something I could carry.

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.”

The receptionist explains the program in “As you already know. Main stage in twenty minutes. Full use. No limits. Audience participation is required She’ll be displayed, fucked, and passed around for the first two hours. Then the real games begin.” She hands your Owner a keycard and nods to a side door. “Waiting room three. They will bring you in when it’s time.” Your Owner carries you down the hallway into a large waiting room. The space is filled with other disgusting people

He held hers back in the way he held things that mattered, with the full settled weight of him, not performing the holding, just holding. The waiting room had four other people in it and a television mounted in the corner playing something with the sound off. The chairs were the standard chairs, plastic and institutional, the same chairs that appeared in waiting rooms all over the country as though there had been a single procurement decision made about waiting rooms somewhere in the 1980s and no one had revisited it since. She had a specific

"Mr. Johnson, who's Mr. Rivera asking you to check on? Maybe I know them." "Oh, right. You're all from Walden College. It's a woman whose name is Rowena Colson." He even helpfully flipped the printed photo over for me to see. The young woman in the image wore a pale layer of powder, but a dark birthmark clung to her skin like a monstrous claw, impossible to ignore. Ewan was looking for me! The thought lodged in my chest like a thorn, making me increasingly uneasy. So, when I was called into Ewan's office the following noon, I was still a little out of it. While I made his coffee, I could feel the chill in his gaze, threaded with heavy scrutiny.

A critic sees it as a poorly paced play with too many extras and not enough focus on the exits. I waited until we reached the transition corridor, the "no man’s land" between intake and the cells. It was a narrow hallway with a heavy door at the end that required a keycard. "Wait," I said, stumbling slightly. "What now?" "I think I’m going to be sick. The adrenaline... and the snow..." I leaned against the wall, making my breathing shallow and ragged. I looked pale, which wasn't hard to do considering I’d been freezing on a mountain an hour ago.

The receptionist suggested. "I don't have his contact,but can I wait for him at the waiting room?"Mrs Seth asked. "If you want to wait,then you are free ma'am.i would call someone to take you to our waiting room."The receptionist answered. "Okay,"Mrs Seth said and just then the person who she was waiting for arrived. "Ohh.here he is ma'am"The receptionist Announced. "Who?"Mrs Seth asked. "The guy at Room 206"The receptionist answered and Mrs Seth turned back and saw him.

The waiting room is cold. White walls. Fluorescent lights that hum and flicker, casting a sickly pallor on everything. The smell of antiseptic burns my nose, sharp and clinical, mixed with the faint undertone of coffee from the vending machine. The chairs are plastic, hard, arranged in rows facing a television that plays the news on mute. I see our faces on the screen. Headlines scroll across the bottom. Preston Family Scandal. Attempted Murder. Doctor Targeted.