You are here. A pink dot on a map in a glass atrium where bronze deer wander. People you don’t know sit along the walls as you shake your umbrella, wetting the floor. You are early. There are no white stirrers in the cafeteria, the dispenser’s empty and a woman in green sputters fresh orange bin liners into waste bins while an old man gesticulates at high-up squares.
It’s
10.30. Your appointment is 10.40 in G3, but floaters swarm your field
of vision, blurring the signs, and you are lost until you spot an
etched finger on the wall pointing towards a swing-through double
door.
On
the other side, behind a reception desk, a chair revolves (empty) on
its stand. A line of people wait in silence at the desk. You join the
back of the queue. A voice from a speaker mounted on the wall says,
“Do not think you have missed your turn. Different procedures are
happening at the same time.”
A
nurse with a clipboard calls your name. You follow. She leaves you
alone in a small room. A moment of silence followed by interference.
A speck of light arcs through a crack in the door. You hear a
fingernail drawn across a curtain. A fly bats at the window. You hear
a blet of traffic passing, a rub of tyres in the rain.
You
are here. Your eyes track a blue dot on a white wall. No scream of
neon before light flicks dark. No pain. Just the sound of a fly
zapping the window again and again.
About the author: Diane Becker writes short stories and poetry. Her work can be read at The Pygmy Giant, Metazen, Flashquake, Ink Sweat and Tears, and The Postcard Press. She is deputy editor of The Short Review and blogs at http://notdesignedtojuggle.wordpress.com.
Image: (c) Ennor
