The following is a guest post by William Quincy Belle. William is just a guy. Nobody famous; nobody rich; just some guy who likes to periodically add his two cents worth with the hope, accounting for inflation, that $0.02 is not over-evaluating his contribution. He claims that at the heart of the writing process is some sort of (psychotic) urge to put it down on paper and likes to recite the following which so far he hasn’t been able to attribute to anyone: “A writer is an egomaniac with low self-esteem.” You will find Mr. Belle’s unbridled stream of consciousness here (http://wqebelle.blogspot.ca) or @here (https://twitter.com/wqbelle).
Kevin looked down at his hands. How long had he been here? He couldn’t say. He looked up at the clock and saw that it was 2:25. Was that pm? Of course, it was pm. Why would he be here at 2:25 in the morning? That’s ridiculous.
He looked around the room. There was nobody else. Why was not anybody else waiting too? How odd. Maybe it was that time of day. Wait. What time of day? Had everybody else been taken care of and he was the last? Last what? Was this a doctor’s office? Was he at the hospital? He furrowed his brow. He was forgetting something.
He glanced down at the table beside him. It was empty. It had two levels, so he leaned forward to look under the upper level toward the back. There was nothing. No magazines. No pamphlets. Nothing. He scanned the room. There was a couch against each wall and a two level end table in each corner. From his position, he could see there were no reading materials in the room. There was nothing to read, nothing with which to amuse himself. How long would he have to wait?
“You’re going to hell.”
What was he remembering? Who had said that to him? What were the circumstances when somebody would ever say such a thing? Wait. Somebody screamed that at him. That’s it; somebody screamed that at him. Where did this happen? When did it happen? What could he have done to deserve such a condemnation? Fire and brimstone. Eternal damnation. Cast into the lake of fire. Obviously, somebody was pissed at him. Jesus, what had he done? He couldn’t remember.
He looked at the clock. It said 2:25. He frowned then looked around the room and scratched his head. Where was he?
Something else came to mind.
“You bastard. I hope you rot in hell.”
Who had said that to him? Whoever it was, they were definitely pissed at him. His second invite to Hades.
He stood up and stared across the room at one of the couches. It was quiet. He noticed he didn’t hear anything. There were no voices, no sounds of movement, nothing. He slowly paced in a circle examining each couch and each table. Everything was nondescript.
He stopped and pursed his lips. There had been an accident. He could remember flashing lights and a siren. He’d been driving. His car had veered into on-coming traffic and there was a head-on collision. He sat down on the nearest couch and leaned forward resting his elbows on his thighs. Somebody had been killed. His eyes widen and he raised a hand to support his head. He’d been drinking. His voice was almost inaudible. “Oh my God…”
He sat bolt upright with both hands on his knees. How much trouble was he in? Would he be convicted of murder? Was he going to jail? Would be sued until he was penniless? He stared straight ahead for a moment then turned his head first to the right then to the left. There was a door in one corner. He stood up, walked over, and opened it. He peered into the hall. It was a corridor. It was like any other corridor running in both directions. There were several doors visible.
Stepping into the hall, he shut the door and walked down to the next room. He opened the door and looked inside. It was another waiting room. He glanced around and saw the same couches and two level end tables. There were no reading materials in sight. The clock showed 2:25. He shut the door and went to the next room. It was the same. He continued down the hall and opened another five doors to discover exactly the same duplicate waiting room.
He stood in the hall and looked down the corridor. More doors were in sight. He turned back from where he came. He jogged back up the hall, past what he thought was his original door, and continued for another five rooms. He stopped and opened the closest door. It was another waiting room. He took a deep breath, stepped into the room and shut the door. He sat down and stared at the opposite couch. Somebody had died after his evening in a bar.
Kevin looked down at his hands. How long had he been here? He couldn’t say. He looked up at the clock and saw that it was 2:25.