Waiting Room

Zhu sat in the corner of the waiting room, brightly lit with quietly humming LED lamps. The room smelled of linoleum-cleaning liquid and a dried-out sewer pipe. Ammonia and feces, fitting, Zhu thought.

Five people waited with him. All of them were sitting in the same pose: straight back, hands on their laps, looking at the wall in front of them. Barely moving, barely breathing. Five faces with mouths shut and lips sagging down. Five pairs of eyes that didn’t even blink. All of them were wearing grey trousers. Their t-shirts might have added color if they weren’t all washed out and faded. Fuck, I’m turning into them, he thought when he caught himself putting his hands on his lap and sitting with his back straight. Zhu waited.

Life is a constant wait for death. Death of a wealthy relative from whom you inherit, death of a sick family member to end everyone’s suffering, death of a dictator or politician you hate, and one day, your own. Zhu waited.

“Mr Li,” a nurse in scrubs peeked her head out of an office and called. One person stood up and walked towards the door, looking at the floor the whole time. Zhu raised his head and observed the man. His steps short, shaky. A creamy envelope sticking out of the trouser back pocket.

Some are alive but never born, spending their lives living to fulfil the social obligations in a society where the birth of an independent self is a crime more terrifying than murder. A moving shell of a dead person, making motions to postpone its funeral for eighty years.

Mr Li disappeared into the office. The door thudded shut behind him.

Eighty years, none of them alive. Eighty years, if you are lucky. But is this luck? Zhu wondered and played with a plastic wristband they had given him at the entrance.

All people simultaneously raised their hands to their mouths and coughed. Zhu, lost in thought, didn’t notice: Eighty years cooking and eating bland food as if even tasting something was too much of a transgression. Zhu raised his left hand and coughed.

Eighty years one-upping everyone else in the contest of worrying what others will think and making sure they approve what they see. He set his hands in his lap. Straightened his back. Stared at the wall. His lips began to sag.