This piece is a slightly dramatized and exaggerated narration of the happenings of a recent hour
She thought to herself that either the waiting hall was only as long as she was tall or her approximation was as wrong as she was tense. She looked out the window, down at the road, up at the sky. The road was plain and empty. A brick fell off a stack and shattered into shards, assimilating into the mud, leaving behind only arbitrary shapes of red. The sky was nondescript. Nothing awed her enough to take her mind off what was ahead.
She paced up and down the room that let her take just three steps in a direction before it faced her with its high and lanky walls. There was a door, the one which would open shortly. It was wooden, so ordinary, so brown, yet one she’d begin to see day and night in her dreams. This door and whatever and whoever it kept concealed were all going to change it all. She wanted to change the world. She wanted to create magic. She wanted to save the people. This door that opened to a room she imagined to be more cramped than the one she was in, one that could change her life, or not, was all she could see. She wondered if she had ever noticed doors before.. she discarded the thought deciding that perhaps doors weren’t her thing. And then she just waited. The wait was brutal. It sent her mind into the delightful what-ifs and the abysses of the fatal nots. She paced faster like it would hasten the clock. She practiced in her mind, a charming and formal greeting. She imagined her laugh to ensure it sounded right. She put on her best smile. She untied and clipped her hair for at least the seventeenth time like taming one recalcitrant strand could elevate her chances. The room was getting smaller with the wait. The walls were closing in. She could now take just two steps. Shaking, she sat down on the one chair in the room. Her palms, sweaty as they were, were slipping from the each other’s hold. She replaced her disoriented self and contorted expression with a dignified demeanor and the already identified smile. She waited. And waited.
An impressive looking lady in an elegant outfit informed her that an artist would speak to her after a while. She wondered if her inability to comprehend modern art would show its nasty face conspicuously, hiding her want to appreciate it. Just then the door opened, only slightly, forming a narrow vertical slit. She wondered if artists could see through paint; would he see through the layer of foundation on her face and notice the raw fear. She hoped the waiting room would absorb the fear it into its lanky walls. Little did she know that her Kurti had taken over the task, hiding some of it under her arms, forming a visible blotch that anyone but her could see. She peered into the slit; she could see five inches of a heavy seeming table and a person behind it. She sensed movement inside and steadied her posture.
The door opened. There stood on one side of it, the artist: a black haired one with a whitish French beard that reeked of wisdom and an honest smile that foretold of his vivacious personality. On the other side, there was the girl, a girl in whose mind was a dream, a passageway to the unknowns; a girl with a neatly painted face concealing something, an evident blotch on her turquoise Kurti, shimmering stone ear-rings and a sheepish smile. They shook hands and he greeted her with a “Come in. Come in. Come in. Come in” and chuckled saying “How many times did I say that, four times was it?” He reminded her of Albus Dumbledore. It was the erudite-professor personality or just the beard (that she pictured to be way longer than it actually was). Amidst the laughter began the hour, the one that she thought to herself might just be the most deciding of the many many that she would go on to live.
The artist was casual and amiable, he talked easily. He was known to create an atmosphere that shooed away any kind of unease. He did. The girl, though, froze. She froze like she never had before. She froze like no one had before. She found the coolness intimidating. It was the pressure perhaps. She was so intimidated that she froze herself.
The artist was one of those persons that instantly command respect. He had hers when he counted the Come-Ins, when she was barely in the room, when she noticed his Dumbledorey look. He looked at her expectantly. She spoke briskly, first. There was a conversation, so interesting that it thrilled her. But soon she began to speak in lines that were punctuated too often, more than necessary or recommended. She had vivid pictures moving quickly in her mind. There was so much to tell, so much that she wanted to. But her nerve cells froze, moved like turtles. Her ideas never reached her mouth. Words failed her: this sentence, the banal and clichéd sentence had never been truer in life. Stutters found their places between the overflowing punctuations. They were together more in amount than the words she spoke. Her gestures suffered the effect too. She moved like a robot and spoke like her brain had lost signal in a voice not dissimilar to her brother’s semi-broken voice. The artist lightened the subject, to help her relax. But she was busy in her own struggle with the stiffness. She shook herself (like a dog would after a bath) hoping to shed the freeze, in a way that wouldn’t show across the table. She wriggled like a worm stuck in water. She tried loosened postures. She wondered if it would’ve helped to have learned dance. Her biggest hour was half over and she was still squirming in unease. What if she didn’t make it? What if she would have to live a life squirming like this? Why did the freeze attack her this day, this hour? It must be an insidious crook. The artist talked about the Romans, calligraphy and archery. He articulated everything her mind pictured, so neatly, so easily. She nodded as he spoke all that she wished she had. He also spoke so much more than she had ever known. She listened in awe and in slight disappointment with herself. Slowly she loosened, she spoke of the world, people, emotions. The conversed freely about ambitions and dreams. The unabashed freeze didn’t give her long though, it found an unsuspecting moment and engulfed her in its rigidity soon. Out came the stutters again, heavily altering the speed and flow of the conversation. The hour was over, almost. Soon, the artist, the Dumbledore, pleasantly saw her off.
Her time was over. It was another’s now. She walked out the door not even noticing it this time. The freeze left her. She wondered if it flew away or chose another unwary one. She had never been more disappointed with herself. There was so much that was left unsaid, so much she wished she had said. She thought of the possibilities of the what-ifs again. And the darkness of the nots. She knew the hour was gone, to somewhere, irrevocable. She was going to drown herself in the uncertainty that would follow. She hoped though, that the artist had seen through the layers and the unsaid words, ambition so deeply entrenched.