The white walls around me seem to be closing in. The sound of the television is muffled and faint. The lady working at the front desk is grumpy and persnickety. She typs away on her computer and the clicking of her keys echo around the small waiting room area. The room is full of my family and multiple others. The adults all waiting patiently and the children behaving because they don't know what to make of the situation. The palms of my hands are sweaty but the rest of my body is cold. A faded smell of hand sanitizer and a sterilizer lingers in the air making it stuffy and hard to breath. Each second I can hear the sound of the clock ticking. And it keeps going. Tick-tock, tick-tock as if there is nothing wrong. My mind is racing. I sit in the chair, slumped over like a sloth. My eyes keep darting back and forth from the TV, to the secretary to my phone screen, pausing at each for a couple seconds but the red exit sign keeps drawing my attention towards it. With the red bulbs glowing, it is the only thing not white in this whole building. A mountain of magazines is piled in a mound, so high that they tower over the table they are on. Off in the distance I hear footsteps. The rubber squeaking as the nurse comes around the corner and I wonder when that will be the docter coming out of the doors. Finally he arrives, with his poker face comes out to talk to us. Everything is alright and my grandfather is okay we can all go home and the tension in the air that built up for so long is released.
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