The Silent Room

I quietly sat down in the comfortless burgundy colored chair. The foam padding underneath the chair was almost nonexistent, as it had been flattened by the many people who have sat here before me. The cloth on the cushion itself was coarse like wool, and no amount of fidgeting to adjust my posture made the chair any more bearable. This paired with the encasing silence and my own inner fright fed my growing nerves. Giving up any hope of comfort, I default to slouching in an almost miserable manner. I sigh softly in disappointment, which brought me to an odd realization as the room’s air filled my nose. It carried an unusually sterile smell, like the atmosphere had been permanently stained with the scent of cleaning fluid. The air and felt stuffy and thick, and almost like it had a weight to it. It loomed over me like cigarette smoke with its menacing heaviness, crushing my nauseous stomach and seemingly weighing upon my soul.
The room is dead quiet, like an abandoned building. Occasionally there was the appearance of an emotionless lady calling out names. She would open the door halfway with a loud creak and look down at her fate deciding clipboard. The woman’s expression was comparable to a thief’s appearance when getting his mug shot taken. Her negative expression showcased all of her shallow frown lines around her mouth and eyes. She read off the paper attached to her clipboard in an uninterested manner, as if she was reciting a grocery list. Then someone would stand up from the chairs warily, and follow her deep into the belly of the monstrous facility.
None of the others in dull red chairs said a word while this happened, or while anything happened for that matter. In fact it was as if the people in the room tried to avoid making any noise at all. It was as if they were afraid of shattering the silence, like if one were to take a hammer to a piece of glass and send broken shards flying through the air. If a timid lady had to retrieve an item from her purse she would do so with the utmost delicacy. If the purse was zipped shut she would likely not even attempt to open it. The sharp buzz of pulling the zipper open would disturb the whole area, and induce annoyed glances from those around her. It was a crime to make noise, and I, like everyone else, must be a law abiding citizen of the silent room.

Every passing minute was increasing my nausea, it felt like a burning hole in the middle of my torso. Although the sour queasiness I was experiencing was not solely caused by the discomfort of being in the room. I had not eaten since dinner the previous night, as instructed by the man in the long bleached coat. He explained it was for my safety, so I do not choke during my artificial slumber. Though I wanted to defy his fasting instructions with every fiber in my being, I knew I had to obey for my safety. After all, in a matter of minutes he would have his life in my hands.
I needed a way to distract myself from the churning fright and painful hunger in my belly. Luckily my potential escape from my discomfort sat in front of me. There was a low glass coffee table pilled with worn magazines. I carefully skimmed through the pile, cautious not to make much noise. None of the magazines were even remotely appealing. I was disappointed, yet desperate for anything to keep me occupied. I grab the magazine on the top of the pile, depicting a domestic woman holding a sewing kit on the cover. I had no interest in reading it, so I simply skimmed through the vividly colored pictures and advertisements.
The magazine did not contain much material beyond home decorating and baking, subjects I have never been particularly interested in. In fact staring at pictures of steaming hot food was only reminding me of the acidic emptiness in my belly. I began to catch myself succumbing to daydreaming of all the delicious things I could eat. Like sub sandwiches with meat, cheese, and vegetables piled so high you can barely fit your mouth over it to take a bite. Or perhaps I wanted some delicate truffles with velvety chocolate filling. The lavish sorts that come in the small iridescent boxes wrapped with matching silk ribbon. Though at this point cardboard with a slab of butter was becoming a plausible meal, anything to fill the void in my stomach. I started to wonder if this is what starvation feels like.
The women with the clipboard opened the door again, and to my dismay, called my name. I slowly got up from my chair, trying to delay the inevitable. Like a cow trying to evade it’s certain slaughtering. I walk toward the large door feeling small and fragile, my fear growing. Some of the people in the chairs look up and follow me with their eyes, adding to my stress. I enter the tight hallway of the facility feeling slightly claustrophobic. The lady closes the door behind me with a menacing thud and my heart skips a beat. She orders me to follow her and I quickly obey, afraid to get lost in the facility. My heart sinks deep into my chest when we stop in front of the orthodontic surgical suite.
She waves me in like an animal and shuts the door with another loud thud. I lie down in the dental chair and stare up at the ceiling, trying not to hyperventilate. A nurse enters minutes afterward with an IV bag on a stand. She encourages me to relax as she slips the needle into my veins. I took those last moments of consciousness to say one last prayer, before the fate of my mouth was in the hands of the doctor.