“Take a seat, he will see you shortly”

She shuffled into the small familiar room. Taking a seat opposite the window, keeping the reception in full view.

The windows were draughty and always made her cold. Better to sit where she could see the receptionist. If they could see you, they would call you sooner. It was easy to be forgotten in this small room, where thirty minutes is and hour and an hour is a minute.

Time was relative to your infliction, to the aches or pains. For those who had a cold, flu, or injury, something tangible, visible. Well for them it seemed as if every second was an hour, it seemed to never end, it seemed as this was the end.

Her lot had it just as hard but just the opposite. If you had the invisible ones, that ate away at your body or your mind. Well then, every hour was a second, time slipped away and they spent it rooms like this, waiting.

Rooms, filled with despair and plastered with hope. Life & Travel magazines lined the tables, as if to taunt them, why not just stop trying to live. She could take the next flight, and just give up. Six months maybe more, it might be worth it, it might be easier. They always said living was hard.

The fight was worth it, a woman against the clock, against the unknown, against the invisible. Each visit to this room was the battle against fate, awaiting the final call, the swan song.

A cheating husband apologized to his dying wife on the tv in the corner. Somehow it made the room feel lighter, the world seemed cruel, but for everyone, not just her.

“Miss Baker”

Here she goes, the final walk, all over again.