The Waiting Room Play Novels & Stories

Pack members with minor injuries, a few wolves recovering from training, a woman with a child on her lap who looked up when we entered and then looked away with the practiced neutrality of someone who had received the same silent briefing as everyone else in this house. Sarah approached the intake desk. The woman behind it looked at me. Then at her clipboard. Then back at me with the expression of someone consulting an internal list and locating my name in the wrong column. "Take a seat," she said. "Someone will be with you." --- An hour passed. I tracked it by the light changing through the high windows and by the steady rotation of other patients — wolves who arrived after us, were called

It was the most interesting time of my life. Finally, after two days, she got over her inhibition and acted well. I was happy that she was saying such romantic lines to me. She was blushing a bit and avoiding looking at me, while I was grinning like a fool. The day of the play came and we all did a splendid performance. Our play won the prize. And Damini and I were selected as best actors. She looked so pretty saying all those romantic lines and songs with a delicate blush on her cheeks. I wish she was saying them in reality. But in reality, she was avoiding me.

He was controlled and direct and the woman was already typing things and making calls by the time he stepped back. He came back and sat down next to me. Not across from me. Next to me. "They are running assessments," he said. "We will wait." I nodded. We sat there. The waiting room was not full but it was not empty either. There was a man with his arm in a makeshift sling sitting two rows away. A woman with a child on her lap near the window. A television mounted on the wall was playing something with the sound turned down. Malcolm had his elbows on his knees and his hands clasped together and he was looking at the floor.

Lewis was not going to speak for a moment. He did not speak for a moment. Yessica's hand found his on the arm of the chair and stayed there. They left at four. The corridor was quieter than it had been two hours ago, the hospital doing its end-of-afternoon shift change. A nurse stepped out from the nurses' station as they reached the lift. "Mr. Sterling?" She looked at Lewis. "There is a woman in the family waiting room on this floor. She has been there since ten this morning. She asked the desk to tell you she would wait as long as needed."

We sat there in the institutional beige silence of the waiting room, eating crackers, the television mounted in the corner playing a home renovation show on mute with the captions running in a font that was slightly too small to read from this distance. The room had two other occupants — an older man doing a crossword with the focused energy of someone for whom the crossword was load-bearing, and a woman in scrubs who appeared to be on her break and was asleep sitting up with the practiced ease of someone who had learned to sleep anywhere. A clock on the wall moved its second hand in the particular way waiting room clocks moved, like even time was slowed down in here, made thicker by the spe

Since when was she so dirty? Besides, she was about to spend hours organising his office. As the hours passed, her anxiety only grew. Finally, a soft knock came at her door. It was Clara. “Mr. Harrington is sending for you,” Clara said, her eyes holding sympathy. “Best not keep him waiting.” Lila nodded, her legs feeling like lead as she made her way down the hall. She stopped at his office door and knocked. “Come in.” She opened the door and stepped inside. The room was dimly lit by the soft glow of candles. Mr. Harrington sat in the centre, lounging in a leather chair, the flickering light casting shadows across his sharp features.

Emily’s POV The waiting room felt like purgatory. The harsh white lights buzzed overhead, the vinyl chairs creaked each time one of us shifted, and the faint smell of disinfectant clung to the air, sharp and unforgiving. I sat between my mother and Lola, their hands clasped with mine, our fingers trembling as we held on to each other as though we could form a shield against fate.

Thank goodness, she's still alive. The surgical waiting room becomes our prison for the next five hours. There are rows of hard chairs, a small table with old magazines, and a television in the corner that no one is watching. The waiting room smells with antiseptic. The kind of smell that clings to places where people wait for news that could break them.

Boarding will open in two hours. - Yes, it does! The employee, satisfied with her duty, looked with relief at the man who was waiting for his turn to ask a question. Two hours later, it's not certain that Reid decided to wait in the waiting room, but it's worth a try. The waiting room was almost empty. I glanced disappointedly at those waiting to board. Reed was not among them. I had just turned to leave when the phone rang. Finally. Hasty fingers did not immediately cope with the phone. Reid called.

The waiting room smelled like antiseptic and bleach. The overhead lights buzzed faintly, far too bright for this late hour. Anna sat hunched in the stiff plastic chair, fingers twisting the hem of her t-shirt, eyes locked on the double doors marked: Authorized Personnel Only. She hadn’t blinked in what felt like hours. Her husband had been inside for forty-two minutes. The nurse had said they were “doing everything they could.” That someone would come talk to her soon. But no one had come.