Last week I died. Or at least, I think it was last week. It was definitely a Wednesday or a Sunday… It definitely ended in ‘day’ that’s what I know for sure. It’s hard to keep track of time in here, things start to get sketchy. There is a clock, big and yellow, like the sun. Except unlike the sun, it’s a clock, not a burning ball of gas. One problem with its clockyness, It does move backwards. Well actually the minute hand moves forward and the hour hand moves backwards. On top of this, the numbers keep switching places, or sometimes even making a break for it and running down the wall, they are soon caught and returned by a little man with a wicker hat who emerges from the clock and makes chase. They never get away.
The room is much like a waiting room, it seems to stretch on for infinity, two parallel walls going on forever. Each Wall has is lined with chairs, of varying shapes and sizes: armchairs sofas, recliners, footstools. Every so often a gong rings and everyone must get up and move one seat to the right, did I forget to mention there were people too? It’s like a waiting room for a hospital emergency department, most have an apparent ailment, covered in boils, missing limbs, one chap I saw had a full-sized sword through his body which I thought would make sitting in the chairs very awkward, but he seemed to manage. Unlike a hospital waiting room it was deathly quiet, only twice had I heard a sound that didn’t come from my own lips. Both times it didn’t last long. No one explained what was going on, no one was very kind except Greg.
One of my friends misheard what I said and thought I said last week I died, and I thought it would be an interesting prompt to a story. Sorry it’s not very long, I got distracted by Brooklyn Nine-Nine and custard creams and as its nearly 5 it’s probably time to sleep. But I’ll finish it later. Any feedback appreciated Goodnight.