His leg bounced aggressively, hard enough to annoy him rather than simply occupy. He unclasped his hands and ran them up and down his thighs as if trying to soothe the anxious leg. It didn't work very well, so he lifted his head and tried to focus on his surroundings to distract himself.
A row of chairs lined the plain, off-white walls. They were sparsely filled with ordinary people texting or playing games on their phones. Ugly posters and boring paintings hung above them. Someone coughed, someone entered the room. No one paid him any mind.
The reception desk phone rang. His leg froze. Everything in his body stopped and then stuttered alive again when someone else's name was called. This happened each time the low bring bring of the phone brought the chance of it being his turn higher and higher. His leg was getting tired now, but it didn't stop. He thought that he would've felt better if everything wasn't so quiet, so still.
The phone rang, he froze, and the next name was called.
"Mr. Reed, you can go on up."
Oh. This was it. No turning back now.
He took a sharp intake of breath and stood. Blood rushed to his head just slightly. He took his name tag and entered the elevator. With each floor he passed, the lighter his body and the clearer his mind became. Then the elevator stopped, having reached his destination, and his fingers wrapped around the cool metal in his inner pocket.
The doors slid open, and three men were there to greet him and lead him to the office. He focused only on the man in the middle, who was older with lighter-colored hair, but it was still like looking in a mirror. He read his name tag.
"Mr. Reed."
The bullet lodged itself cleanly in his brain.
YOU ARE READING
Mr. Reed
Historia CortaI wrote this at a summer writing camp, and it's like one of the only things I finished that week. The prompt was to focus on setting, and I chose the waiting room (since I lost in rock paper scissors to get the elevator).
