It’s quiet here, and I am alone in a dimly lit room. Across the hall, I see nothing but empty chairs, lonely, by themselves, and I wish I could sit there. Not a soul in sight. Just the rancid smell of antiseptic, wafting through the stale air.

A clock, the only noise, sounds like torture as it echoes off the walls. A shuffle of footsteps reminds me, I’m not really alone, the quiet now filled with a roaring din of bells and alarms, ringing out of sync. People in white coats, pristine and far too  clean, flash false smiles at one another as they hurry by.

Wheels in motion, bang into walls, elevator doors open, and close again. I watch as the people walk by, and finally stop. I hear my name, they whisper, as I lie here. Gone? Who’s gone? I tug on the man with the clipboard but he doesn’t move. I call to the girl in the pinstriped dress but she passes me by. I scream hello, but no one answers. I don’t understand. Why can’t they hear me?

©Dorinda Duclos All Rights Reserved
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