I hate it. The smell of sickness, those bland, boring walls adorned with pictures of the hospital's staff and the occasional copies of paintings of old, country-side farms, the unsterile magazines on their unsterile magazine racks, the nervous fidgeting of patients, the impatience of the family members of the patients, the forced bravery of some patients, the unnecessary too-early mourning by the families of the patients with nothing but simple colds, but I mostly hate the concept of it. "The waiting room," most call it, a calm expression on their faces, though they know that they're dying a little inside every time they hear or say the phrase. I can honestly say I'm not the only one who has a hatred for those godforsaken hell holes.

The only good thing ever having come from a waiting room is the coffee machines, and those were rare.

So why am I in one, sharing the impatience of many others? What force possibly could have brought me here, to a place where I clearly express my hatred for it?

I'm standing in the corner of the room, my arms crossed stiffly against my chest. Leaning on the wall, I prop my left foot up behind me. I absolutely refused to sit in those dreadful chairs. I wait, continuing to wonder what I'm doing here and why I would actually stay. I get ready to leave, and have my answer.

"Alexander King," a nurse in blue scrubs called out, standing in the doorway leading away from the waiting room. I remember then. I'm here to get an MRI done on my head so that I'll finally know why I'm having these constant headaches that never seem to go away. I turn around and walk towards the nurse, following her through the door. Unknowingly, I'm walking out of one hell hole and into another one, giving up the last normal day of my life. I would miss the places that I had so easily damned before, the places that still offered a sense of not knowing, of comfort that everything might just turn up okay in the end.