Lit/Pub #IV - The Wake Up Issue - Spring2024

Fiction
Hanging Rock Dream Clinic is outside the city, in a semi-rural area where you can still breathe
the intoxicated monotony of suburban life as it spreads to the surrounding fields. It is composed of
two connected rectangular buildings and a parking lot that is twice the size of the compound. Inside
the halls are mostly deserted; a few dirty windows let in a grayish sunlight. Nothing in this medical
center suggests eccentricity or weirdness of any sort.
I am greeted by a middle-aged woman who stinks of cigarettes and coffee.
“Mr. Flores? Please take a seat. I will call you as soon as the doctor is available.”
The place seems empty. The waiting room is spanking clean. Long hallways extend their reach
in every direction. Some distant light bulbs must be out because the halls fade into darkness. I hear the
echo of water drops falling somewhere. There is a certain dampness in the air. In the waiting room, the
window looks out onto a road. A car passes by every few minutes. I try to catch a glimpse of the drivers.
When they fade out of my line of vision beyond trees, I see my own reflection on the grimy glass. I
am melting too, into the green and dusty armchair, dissolving into the moldy air; my arms reach out to
all the walls in the room and they hug all there is, all that is unseen.
“Mr. Flores, the doctor is waiting for you,” a young receptionist says, taking in my tired face
with a slight smile.
“I’ll finish my coffee and come immediately,” I say impulsively. I haven’t had any coffee yet.
I look to my left and I see a cup of hot, black brewed coffee; the cup is full to the brim. When I turn
around the receptionist is already gone. I hear drilling noises upstairs.
There is one lit room on the second floor, on the other side of the building. As I get closer the
drilling noise stops but a pulsating reverberation grows stronger with every step. I feel its force travel
through my arms and into my stomach. Then it goes away as quickly as it appeared. But the feeling of
nausea remains.
I step into the well-lit room and I am greeted by a clean-shaven doctor in his thirties. He
invites me to lay down. His voice is calm and persuasive, but his breath stinks of gasoline. I sit up for
a blood test. The doctor gently sanitizes my arm and inserts the syringe. The pulsating comes back all
at once. Now it is thumping in my ears. I feel my body screaming through my bones. The more I try
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