I have just returned to the camp of rotting flesh to sit on antibiotic-resistant bacteria-ridden chairs in the waiting room of my local optometrist. I brought with me from my van my little blue notebook so that I may write down what I see here as a warning to all those other innocent souls who may need to have a scratched lens replaced and find themselves in a similar situation, in the WAITING ROOM OF EVIL.
At first I did not realize what I had gotten myself into, this place, these people, the horrid insanity-inducing items that have been placed here to drive us mad. This woman, this optometrist, she is a devil. Like a miniature English-speaking female Hitler she has put on the coffee table a copy of the latest issue of Cosmopolitan Magazine, its articles asking whether my man really loves me and which is the cutest guy from some fucking sitcom. I hate this perfumed rag, I loathe it from cover to cover. These girls with their makeup and their big breasts popping from the newest Spring fashions are looking at me and smiling, but why? What are they really smiling at? Do they think they know something that I don't? Maybe they do. Maybe the technology to monitor people through glossy-paged magazines have been invented and that was why the guy at the grocery store was sniffing his nose. Because he knew that I do not understand what everyone else does. Maybe the gloss is just the outside of the thin computers. Computers are always shiny. Maybe they have these questionaires inside magazines in waiting rooms so that you think the answers to yourself and then it's recorded somehow. I will not think the answers.
I cannot help but wonder if she put this particular volume here just for me, as some sort of vicious ploy because she did not like me the last time I came in, when she spilled some of that fucking yellow eye numbing shit on the side of my fucking face and I did not like it. There is no telling why she would have done such a thing.
My cellmates seem unwary and unconcerned of their fate, naive in their trust of this sadistic optometrist. A chubby girl with red hair who works at the Texaco station and some black guy with a long grey overcoat sit near me, breathing, breathing like animals. The black guy has looked at me twice. I think he knows, but what he knows specifically I cannot tell. Can he read my mind? Does he know more of what it is in my skull than I do? Or maybe it's just paranoia. Maybe he can't know and it's impossible to know for everyone else. Maybe there really is no such thing as psychic power. But I can't be sure.
The girl has a ketchup stain on her pants or maybe it's blood. Maybe they have tortured her already. Maybe they have brainwashed her with flashing lights in the optometrist's chair and she does not know what happened. I have to be careful. I wish I had a tape recorder. Then I could know for certain what happened after I leave. I MUST remember that I do not have any blood stains on my pants now. I MUST remember for later, after I have gone back to my van.
The assistant is waving me in. I will write more later if I survive. If I remember to. Please God, don't let them take my mind.
READER'S REVIEWS (7) DISCLAIMER: STORYMANIA DOES NOT PROVIDE AND IS NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR REVIEWS. ALL REVIEWS ARE PROVIDED BY NON-ASSOCIATED VISITORS, REGARDLESS OF THE WAY THEY CALL THEMSELVES.
"Funny! Loved it! You should get some help man! hahaha :-)" -- Jim Horn.
"Heh heh funny. Coulda been longer, but you made me chuckle so screw it. I like your style, pal!" -- Thepratmeister, Adelaide, SA, Australia.
"yes funny! it was like u could read my mind. since u haven't written about how they tortured you, i presume u died while fighting the evil optometerist. may your soul rest in peace! (the writer is a girl, guys)" -- sunny, dc, usa.
"I DOMINATE YOUR FRAGILE MINDS ON THE BATTLEFIELD OF THE PARKING LOT! LIKE A SHADOW IN THE NIGHT I AM THERE BUT I AM NOT! BUY ME A PEPSI OR I WILL TICKLE YOU TO DEATH WITH MY FEATHER OF EVIL! YOU HAVE NO CHOICE FRIGHTENED SUN-DWELLERS!" -- The Magnificent Fyle, Seattle, WA, USA.
"worst story ever" -- paul.
"THE SALAD OF EVIL http://fyle.home.comcast.net/salad.mp3" -- WOOO!!!, kiev, ukraine.
"This guy writes songs too. www dot putfile dot com backslash kennyboy180" -- James, Memphis, Georgia, USA.
TO DELETE UNWANTED REVIEWS CLICK HERE! (SELECT "MANAGE TITLE REVIEWS" ACTION)
Submit Your Review for The Waiting Room Of Evil
Required fields are marked with (*). Your e-mail address will not be displayed.