He signed his name on the clipboard, Damian Johnson, and sat down. The clock was massive and surgical. The tick seemed ancient.
The room was modest but empty, apart from the receptionist and an older gentleman sitting across from him. Bright lights shined overhead and illuminated everything apart from the older man. The lights almost seemed to avoid him. Giant double doors guarded the entrance. Damian’s hands were balmy, and his brow leaked.
He glanced the man and his stomach dropped, like leaning too far back in a chair-the older man was staring at him. Damian quickly looked down and used his phone as camouflage-it failed. It was dead and would not power on. He knew it was charged when he arrived.
When did he arrive?
His mind ached at the thought. The clock clicked louder, a damning noise. It shook his skull and made it difficult to concentrate. The old man had not moved since he arrived-10 minutes ago.
An hour?
Damian’s breath was visible. The cold, numbing. The man appeared. A flash of shadow.
When had that happened?
Damian twitched and tried not to scream. The man did not move but simply checked his watch-a midnight color-and returned to his newspaper.
A newspaper?
Damian closed his eyes and rested his head on the white walls. Solid and cold to the touch. “Mr. Johnson” the voice sounded distant and near. Almost bored. Damian did not register it immediately; he was somewhere else entirely.
All of his memories-both happy and sad-intertwined. Flashes of love and violence played like a movie reel. The scenes cut deep, and his emotions seemed to swell to their breaking point.
“Mr. Johnson!” the receptionist persisted. Damian opened his eyes. It was dim now. The gentleman was back to his original posting. The walls listened, and the tick of the clock ceased. A light hum filled the air.
“Mr. Johnson, they are ready for you now” the lights reached a crescendo, parting for her voice.
“Thanks” Damian and the older fellow stood in unison. The man approached him and extended a wrinkled hand.
“Don’t be afraid.”
T. Morrow is a writer from Mississippi working in compressed fiction shaped by atmosphere, interiority, and structural minimalism.
The Cabinet of Heed 