With a smile, the attendant lets me into the waiting room. “Welcome, I hope you’ll feel right at home here.”, he says, “unfortunately I have to apologize in advance that it’s going to be quite a long wait. The queue is long and there are unexpected cases coming in all the time. However, if a spot frees up, we might be able to squeeze you in. I’ll get you once it’s time. Thank you for your patience.” And with that, he leaves me with a small brochure informing me about the procedure that will be performed on me once my time has come.
I look around the room. It is spacious with many amenities that go far beyond what you’d expect from a regular waiting room. I knew that this wouldn’t be a regular waiting room, though. I was informed that I might be here for days, maybe months, or maybe even years. “At least I’m going to be comfortable while I wait” is what I tell myself as I wander around the facilities which include a well stocked buffet, small rooms for sleeping, sanitary facilities of course and a luxurious entertainment area. After familiarizing myself with the layout, I fall into a very comfortable armchair next to a small fireplace and begin studying the brochure.
It’s not a long read. In fact, it contains hardly any information at all. Not that it matters, really, because I didn’t choose this procedure. For me, and anyone else from where I live, it is as mandatory as things get. At least that’s fair. Nobody, and I mean literally nobody, gets to refuse. No matter who you are, what you do, who your parents were or where you went to school, everyone needs to have this procedure performed on them. There is no way to reject it, there is no way to escape, there is no way to fight your way out of it. There are stories about some who have tried but no one ever succeeded. And I understand that they’d want to. If I had even the slightest sliver of hope to escape this procedure, believe me, I would. Because this procedure will be my end.
My friends sometimes call me pessimistic, but it’s not my pessimism speaking when I say this. It is exactly what the brochure says. Despite its secrecy and lack of concrete information it is eerily clear about that. Whatever they are going to do to my body, they are not going to return it to me. After this procedure, all that I am right now will be gone. For all practical purposes, I will be dead. This is not the waiting room of a doctor’s office, this is the waiting room of a slaughterhouse. But I knew that before I arrived here so there’s no reason to get upset about it right now, and with those thoughts I wave over a waiter to order myself a nice cup of coffee.
As I’m pondering what I might do next, my coffee arrives. Service here is quick. I take a sip and realize that it is really amazing. It has all you could wish for in a coffee, yet it is lacking a little something. I’m not a regular drinker by a long shot, but this is a special occasion and I think I saw a bar on my tour around the place. So I head to where I remember it and, sure enough, there it is. I sit on a stool next to a guy who clearly has had a few too many and ask the waiter for a shot of whiskey in my coffee. The drunkard eyes me from top to bottom and says: “Well, if it ain’t a new face in ‘ere. How long have ’ya been ‘ere, kid?” - “Only just arrived.”, I answered as the waiter poured a generous shot from a fancy bottle straight into my cup. “How long have you been here?”, I ask the guy, figuring I might as well make some conversation to pass the time. ”I lost track of it.”, the man said, “It don’t matter anyhow. It ain’t like ya could make any predictions from it. When it’s ya time, they get ya. Seen it happen many a time before. Might as well count ya’self dead already.”
“The procedure is nothing like death, you know?” - I had not noticed the woman that had walked up to the bar behind my back. In a cheerful voice she explains: “It’s only the beginning of your real life which will be much better and more impactful than you could ever imagine. The world we all know is only a shadow of the true reality that is out there. This procedure will unlock our ability to perceive and interact with all of it.” I roll my eyes. This is one of the prominent theories about the procedure. There are many others. None of them have any proof to back them up. There’s one theory that we are backup clones of other versions of us and when they have an accident or fall sick, the procedure will replace our memories with theirs so we can continue their lives. Another theory is that we are living inside a simulation and the procedure is the point where they turn it off and we return to our real bodies. I never saw a reason to believe in any of that nonsense. What good is it to convince myself of some random theory, rather than just accepting that I can’t know?
”If the procedure is as great as you say, why don’t they put any of that in the brochure?” I ask the woman. “Because the brochure only contains knowledge and we can’t know these things, we have to believe them”, the woman replies. “Why?”I ask the woman, almost getting angry, “Why do we have to believe anything?” To which she replies in a soft voice: “Because that makes it easier.” Without asking for permission, she grabs my hand and holds it gently in hers. She feels warm and tender, as if she is wearing a velvet glove. “Don’t make the mistake of dwelling in the inevitable. Just enjoy the moment.” Her words move through my brain like ripples as the warmth of her skin and the taste of coffee and whiskey in my mouth make me understand what she means. I think about how little I want this moment to end as I feel horror rising in my chest because the attendant is making his way over to us. It can’t be my turn already, can it? But was it hers? There were so many things I still wanted to say to her, so many things I wanted to feel. Even the thought of her being forced to let go of my hand made my stomach turn.
She hadn’t noticed the attendant until he’s almost right next to us. When she finally does, she seems to be just as shocked as me. We both let out a sigh in relief when he grabs the drunkard’s arm and says “it is your turn, sir”. Without any further thought, we suddenly find ourselves in each other’s arms. “Let’s go and do something.” she says. “Do what?” I ask. “Anything.” she replies. And I can’t argue with that.
