"The day has finally arrived." My mind acknowledges this fact.  A decision is yet to be disclosed. The tension in the waiting room screams for silence. 
    
"Silence!" A rusty voice fills the room, making even the brave draw a sharp breath of fear. I cannot stop the butterflies from fluttering in flight, in fright. The voice echos for many seconds before being engulfed in the void of distress. Rumors spreading, hearts beating, fingers fiddling, lips biting, minds whirling, doubting, fearing. The faces of the people are as white as the off-white wall that captures them, holding them captive. I notice that the waiting room has only one rusty framed window. It reveals a grey slab of concrete, adding to the unappealing atmosphere. The only decorations upon the walls are simple posters, encouraging people to "Keep Calm and Trust the Establishment".   
"An ironic statement, is it not?" I ponder.

An officer of the Establishment stands just outside the door frame. He offers me a glance of empathy but remains rooted at his post. I see petrified children cling to their parents. No sane person chooses to wait in the waiting room. The waiting room is the place where the problematic people are placed. People who don't fit the status quo. Ordinary people who don't quite qualify according to the social construct of the Establishment. They sit here, all of them, waiting for an answer. I wait along with them.

The girl in the far right corner seems unaware of her surroundings. Her eyes are closed, her ears filled with music seeping from her earphones.
"Hawk Nelson," I imagine. Her warm face stands out among the rest. She sits with a calm and constant heartbeat. Her brown bangs hang over her forehead like a dark waterfall and her crimson matte lips are mysterious. She must be at least 17 years old, maturity beyond her years flows from her steady breathing. Her appearance is simple. She dons a tatty pair of faded sneakers with red laces, paired with a simple ensemble of blue jeans and a black top. Not too underdressed, just plain.

She clutches a journal of some sort. It is brown, textured like the skin of an elephant. What is within remains a secret. I can tell that it is a guarded secret by the subtle curl of her fingers. Her story of how she came to wait- no one really knows. Some say she caused uproar in the southern sectors.          
     "A Revolutionary?"  questions a voice in my mind, "She seems too calm for such a position." Others say she was picked from a list. The Establishment has yet to bring her a verdict.

Today, they bring my verdict, but I already know my punishment.      
         "I chose to be here, after all."  I almost say aloud.
No sane person chooses to wait in the waiting room. I never said I was sane. My punishment is my insanity, a condition ruled as unacceptable, incorrigible.

I look toward the brown haired girl again. "If only I could see her eyes before I go." Any minute now, an officer will fetch me and take me away forever. With all my mind, I will her to look up. My green eyes stare at her from across the deadly room.

No response. I hear footsteps. My time is up.    
"Her eyes!" My last chance. The door opens. The people gasp.                "Please! Look!" I scream. My last words.
Her eyes remain closed as I am led out of the waiting room. The waiting room. The girl. Now gone. And so am I.