The room is packed with people sitting in cheap white plastic chairs. The walls are painted an off white, a non-color, bland to the point of non-existence, and there’s an irritating yet unrecognizable music playing at low volume.
The general murmur of other people is not as loud as it should be given the number of bodies present. They sit in the chairs mainly staring straight ahead, some wring their hands, and I can almost taste the adrenalin as their fear courses through their bodies.
There are four desks partitioned one from the other off to the side and occasionally names are called and people walk up to these desks, sit, and answer questions.
I cannot hear what the questions are. But it strikes me that while I have been here for more than forty-five minutes, and have seen a dozen or so people walk up to the desks, I haven’t seen anyone leave the room. When they are finished with the questioning, the people stand and are escorted further back behind the desks by white clad assistants with empty beatific smiles that convey no warmth, no empathy, and certainly no joy.
Another forty-five minutes pass. It’s a guess because there is no clock on the wall and my watch has stopped. I would be bored if I were not so frightened. My iPhone gets no reception and there’s no television, meaning there are no vapid daytime shows of people publicly airing their most personal and disgusting problems so we can all feel superior about our own lives. Why I don’t get up and leave, I don’t know. Nor do I know how I got here or why. I don’t even know where this is or where or why I am here.
My name is called.
I robotically stand and like the drone I always feared I was, I make my way to the desk and sit in a white plastic chair.
“What have you done?”
It’s hard for me to tell if the person asking this question is male or female. I suppose the person is non-binary. I am confused; it’s a generational thing. I am used to male or female and I am even comfortable with gay and transgender but non-binary stumps me and immediately I am defensive.
“I haven’t done anything. Is that why I am here? You think I have done something wrong?”
My voice sounds plaintive when I had hoped it would be assertive, angry even, but alas, I sound like a bleating sheep.
“What have you done?”
The same question is asked as though for the first time. The male/female/androgynous person dressed in white with vacant eyes and expressionless features seems to be looking at me as it asks me the question but I am unsure. Can I say “It”?
“I haven’t done anything!”
I state it defiantly but as I hear my words, they sound whiny. I should jump up. I should stamp and shout. I should assert myself. I should go down fighting. I should but I don’t.
“Thank you.” That’s it? Two white clad assistants are there to help me walk back further behind the desks. I’m sputtering trying to think of what more to say. The assistant’s grasp does not hurt or cause damage but it is exceedingly strong and compliance is all I can muster.
This room looks identical to the other room. I sit in a white plastic chair and the two assistants leave. I glimpse a hallway beyond the door the assistants disappear through and there are countless other identical rooms beyond.
“But I haven’t done anything!” I say it aloud. No one looks up. No one takes notice. But it’s true nevertheless. My mind is flooded with my past. Mistakes, miseries, successes, happiness, the wrongs I have done but have buried forever in my subconscious, the secret feelings and thoughts I have harbored over the years of my life, they all come flooding back into my mind.
“Am I being judged?” I yell. The sound is actually meek and barely audible, not the roar of indignation I had intended.
“Are you of the impression that your actions and deeds and what you think have merit?”
It’s a disembodied voice and I am not sure it wasn’t coming from within me.
“I assure you, that is not the case. There is nothing but callous indifference for you, what you think, or what you do. Sorry to be so blunt, but there you have it, the truth that is so hard to hear.”
“Who are you? What are you? Are you god? Is that what this is? Judgment day?” There is a most noticeable tremor to my voice and even I notice it.
But no god can induce the level of fear that can be found in the human conscious born of self-realization, from personal in depth introspection of a life that was not lived to potential. That is why so many of us on our death beds regret not what we have done so much, for we all make mistakes, but what we have not done, the chances not dared, and the opportunities not taken.
I awake. I am at home. Must have fallen asleep watching a film, I had been recuperating from a back injury and doubtless the medications played tricks in my mind.
I stumble out of bed and go to the bathroom. The mirror shows a man with grey hair, wrinkles and watery eyes. The mottled, sagging skin, the paunch, contrive to lie, for in my mind, I am capable of doing what I used to do, without fear and oblivious to pain, mine, and others.
I turn to confront the man in the mirror. He is old.
And I realize, I have done nothing.
The general murmur of other people is not as loud as it should be given the number of bodies present. They sit in the chairs mainly staring straight ahead, some wring their hands, and I can almost taste the adrenalin as their fear courses through their bodies.
There are four desks partitioned one from the other off to the side and occasionally names are called and people walk up to these desks, sit, and answer questions.
I cannot hear what the questions are. But it strikes me that while I have been here for more than forty-five minutes, and have seen a dozen or so people walk up to the desks, I haven’t seen anyone leave the room. When they are finished with the questioning, the people stand and are escorted further back behind the desks by white clad assistants with empty beatific smiles that convey no warmth, no empathy, and certainly no joy.
Another forty-five minutes pass. It’s a guess because there is no clock on the wall and my watch has stopped. I would be bored if I were not so frightened. My iPhone gets no reception and there’s no television, meaning there are no vapid daytime shows of people publicly airing their most personal and disgusting problems so we can all feel superior about our own lives. Why I don’t get up and leave, I don’t know. Nor do I know how I got here or why. I don’t even know where this is or where or why I am here.
My name is called.
I robotically stand and like the drone I always feared I was, I make my way to the desk and sit in a white plastic chair.
“What have you done?”
It’s hard for me to tell if the person asking this question is male or female. I suppose the person is non-binary. I am confused; it’s a generational thing. I am used to male or female and I am even comfortable with gay and transgender but non-binary stumps me and immediately I am defensive.
“I haven’t done anything. Is that why I am here? You think I have done something wrong?”
My voice sounds plaintive when I had hoped it would be assertive, angry even, but alas, I sound like a bleating sheep.
“What have you done?”
The same question is asked as though for the first time. The male/female/androgynous person dressed in white with vacant eyes and expressionless features seems to be looking at me as it asks me the question but I am unsure. Can I say “It”?
“I haven’t done anything!”
I state it defiantly but as I hear my words, they sound whiny. I should jump up. I should stamp and shout. I should assert myself. I should go down fighting. I should but I don’t.
“Thank you.” That’s it? Two white clad assistants are there to help me walk back further behind the desks. I’m sputtering trying to think of what more to say. The assistant’s grasp does not hurt or cause damage but it is exceedingly strong and compliance is all I can muster.
This room looks identical to the other room. I sit in a white plastic chair and the two assistants leave. I glimpse a hallway beyond the door the assistants disappear through and there are countless other identical rooms beyond.
“But I haven’t done anything!” I say it aloud. No one looks up. No one takes notice. But it’s true nevertheless. My mind is flooded with my past. Mistakes, miseries, successes, happiness, the wrongs I have done but have buried forever in my subconscious, the secret feelings and thoughts I have harbored over the years of my life, they all come flooding back into my mind.
“Am I being judged?” I yell. The sound is actually meek and barely audible, not the roar of indignation I had intended.
“Are you of the impression that your actions and deeds and what you think have merit?”
It’s a disembodied voice and I am not sure it wasn’t coming from within me.
“I assure you, that is not the case. There is nothing but callous indifference for you, what you think, or what you do. Sorry to be so blunt, but there you have it, the truth that is so hard to hear.”
“Who are you? What are you? Are you god? Is that what this is? Judgment day?” There is a most noticeable tremor to my voice and even I notice it.
But no god can induce the level of fear that can be found in the human conscious born of self-realization, from personal in depth introspection of a life that was not lived to potential. That is why so many of us on our death beds regret not what we have done so much, for we all make mistakes, but what we have not done, the chances not dared, and the opportunities not taken.
I awake. I am at home. Must have fallen asleep watching a film, I had been recuperating from a back injury and doubtless the medications played tricks in my mind.
I stumble out of bed and go to the bathroom. The mirror shows a man with grey hair, wrinkles and watery eyes. The mottled, sagging skin, the paunch, contrive to lie, for in my mind, I am capable of doing what I used to do, without fear and oblivious to pain, mine, and others.
I turn to confront the man in the mirror. He is old.
And I realize, I have done nothing.
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