Scraps (Scomiche)

Craving (part 4)

A/N: Last installment of this story.

You asked for it.

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Tick, tock, tick, tock.

The sound of the clock echoes in the empty room, and he feels like his heartbeat slows down to match the passing of time. He sits with his back straight on the hard chair of the waiting room, his eyes focused on the white marble floor, his hands intertwined on his lap. He hears voices in the distance, but the sounds are muffled and he can't understand the exact words. His breath hitches in his throat, the feeling of not knowing what is happening and who is talking making him feel sick in the stomach. He tells himself that there’s nothing that can hurt him here, that he’s here of his own free will, and nothing and no one is forcing him, physically or psychologically. He tells himself that, over and over, and he forces himself to stop listening and focus his hearing on the clock again, trying to calm himself down.

Tick, tock, tick, tock,

There are pamphlets on the coffee table on his left, every single one of them folded carefully so no one can see the subjects - although if someone was to enter right in this moment, it wouldn't be hard to see a wrinkled one thrown on the chair next to his, and it would be easy to guess the bold black word on the front, screaming for attention.

Suicide

He knows that it might raise questions, but he doesn't care. He had to look at it, and he did read it carefully, more out of curiosity than anything else. Given the recent situation, there is nothing more left to him than to try to understand, which is the only thing he is not able to do, no matter how hard he tries, day after day, night after night, in what seems to be a never ending cycle of guilt and shame.

Tick, tock, tick, tock.

Attracted to the repetitive sound, he  raises his eyes to the clock, focused on catching the movements of the minute hand, blocking everything outside like the therapist has told him. His ears fills with the hypnotizing  sound, and he slowly feels more relaxed, letting his body enjoy the quiet washing over him like warm water, loosening his limbs. As soon as the minute hand moves to the six, he closes his eyes, as if he doesn't do it then he will drown again in his own misery.

When he opens his eyes, there is an afraid shadow in them, making them look less dark. He frees his hands and puts them on his thighs, slowly rubbing the fabric of his pants in a repetitive pattern, feeling his legs getting warmer at the movement. He's not cold, he just feels like he needs something to do with his hands while waiting for his appointment. He's afraid that if he doesn't keep his hands busy, he will end up taking the pamphlet again, and he doesn't want to read it anymore. There's no use in it.

Tick, tock, tick, tock.

His eyes move from the wall to the wooden door at the end of the hallway, the only dark spot in a ocean of pure whiteness. For some reason, he remembers Dante Alighieri's Divine Comedy. Maybe there's some sort of symbolism, if he thinks about it. Maybe the waiting room is his limbo and the dark door leading into the therapist studio is his own hell.

His trail of thoughts gets interrupted by the loud sound of the door opening, and hushed voices. He quickly turns, moving his gaze back to the clock, anxiously wondering if they saw him look that way. He keeps his eyes in front of him, avoiding any chance to lock eyes with the other patient. Did they see him? Did they realize he was listening? Are they talking about him?

He finally release a sigh when he hears the door of the waiting room opening and then closing. He feels better now that he’s alone again, but he knows that his appointment is about to start.  He tries to clear his mind from everything. He waits for the therapist to fix whatever's needed in the studio, before reappearing on the threshold, staring at him intensely before calling his name.