Marshall craned his neck. How many hours had it been now, two? It certainly felt like more. He could hear footsteps run rampant outside the cardboard box of a waiting room. (There probably was a more proper term, but Marshall had taken to calling it that after just 30 minutes, for self -explanatory reasons.) Hurried, hurry hurrying. You'd think that amidst all of this bustle, someone would have checked in on me by now.
Marshall glanced upward.
Above his seat there was a small square window, wrapped in polyester curtain and the breathes of whatever other abandoned children ended up here. The sun was strangled by grayblue fabric, coughing peeks of light only through the slightest of gaps betwixt flabby polyester fingers.
If I only had something to boost me up…
Or someone.
But alas, hoping was not getting him anywhere, which at this point shouldn't have surprised Marshall in the slightest.
People lose their minds being in isolation for too long, they start seeing things and growing violent and angry, transitioning into that classic 'needs a shrink' media trope.
The room was not only miniature, it was also relatively vacant, no magazine or television in sight. Outside of the single high-placed window, Marshall's current area contained only the ice cold chair he presently sat in, a parasite sized coffee table that made the Kleenex box resting upon it look ginormous, and a small couch adjacent to the formerly mentioned chair, which somehow miraculously fit in between that kiddie prison of four thick walls.
Marshall was most definitely going to be late for school. As a matter of fact, he would probably be late for school for the rest of his short lifetime, because he would never leave that room, and would instead rot away in this sentenced solitary confinement, going back to the ground from whence he came.
Maybe I'll see Mom again.
Dramatics aside, Marshall was a bit legitimately worried. If these people couldn't find his father or someone else to care for him, then what happens? Foster care? Marshall had heard enough of Fiona's stories to know that wasn't the most ideal way to live. And just how far would he have to move? Although there wasn't much to miss in this town it would just feel wrong to leave it all behind, especially before graduating high school at the very least.
Definitely not for any specific recognizable reason of course.
Just because.
Marshall swung his feet back forth, in tune with some obscured rhythm. He hummed, paced, and finally returned to his seat after tripping over his own shoelaces too many times for a mathematician to count. (He stubbornly refused to tie them.) Finally, he retreated to his seat again. He kicked the couch in front of him.
"Thwump", replied the couch.
For some reason Marshall found the noise hilarious. He chuckled and kicked it again.
"Thwump," agreed the couch.
"Finally, someone who understands me."
Footsteps. They sound of soles slapping solid surfaces slipped in and out of Marshall's auditory detection. Always footsteps.
Marshall kicked the couch again. The bottom of his sneaker left a dusty grey imprint along the arm of the cushioned seat before him, a dirty footprint in the paper pale snow.
Someone could have at least set up a music playlist, or television of some sort. There's not even a single measly magazine in here for my entertainment…
Marshall distracted himself with thoughts about Bubba and a plethora of questions followed suit, like ducklings relentlessly clambering after their mother.
Stupid. He kicked the couch again, embedding another dusty footprint onto the canvas of cloth skin. Sometimes it was just easier to hurt other things than to let yourself hurt.
Marshall didn't have quite as many questions about Bubba anymore.
After several decades of nothing but waiting, the door to the pocket-sized room slithered open, revealing a short man with blond hair that drooped downward towards the carpet, as if trying to slide off of its owner's head in favor of living life as a permanent flooring fixture.
Marshall grinned, tossing his anger and impatience aside like cold soup left out on a winter's night. "Finally. I was starting to think you guys forgot about me."
The hippie-looking man nodded to show comprehension, but based on the wandering of his eyes he appeared lost and generally in a trance. The man drearily began to open his mouth, reminding Marshall of a sloth drowning in molasses. When he spoke, his voice dragged and lagged like his bodily movements.
"Caaaan you pleease stop kicking stuff arooound?"
Are you serious? Marshall thought, Hours of waiting in here and that's literally all you've got to say to me?
Apparently it was, because after his few words, the stocky blond man existed the scene, shutting the cherry stained wood door behind him.
"Great," Marshall moaned, slumping back into his seat with newfound disappointment.
"Thwump!" exclaimed the little couch; only Marshall didn't laugh this time.
The weather was relatively nice outside of the child services building, the sun was shining and birds were singing, grimy little children in nearby neighborhoods slurped melted popsicle off of their sticky palms. But none of these "feel good" happenings could be translated and experienced beyond the thick walls of Marshall's little mini prison, and instead of birds singing, his accompanying audio for the time being was nothing more than rushed feet and the unsteady sound of his own raspy breathing.
Today was going to be a long day.