The Chamber by Richard Chapman
They wait.
Shivering and naked, he looks at those around him. A family next to him are huddled together. He stares at the woman, her arms wrapped around both children, pulling them into her bare breasts. The father’s skeletal frame is crouched just behind and he whispers words of comfort. Soon, the words swell in his throat. He fights, trying to overcome the despair. Uncontrollable sobs follow.
They wait.
A teenage girl stands alone. He wonders about her parents. Her only company is that of her swollen belly. She strokes it, whispering. He looks away; it’s too much.
They wait.
An old rabbi sits in front of him. The old man is not strong enough to stand. He has a look of resignation on his face as he looks at those surrounding him. They are praying. The rabbi does not. God isn’t listening. God isn’t here.
They wait.
He hears a noise from above. Everyone else looks up in synchronicity. It sounds like something is on top of the chamber. There is a collective hope that it’s a sign the showers are starting. He looks at their eyes; they look like cattle.
They wait.
The dim lights fade to black. The hushed tones of doubt and worry have become deafening wails and howls.
They wait.
He tries to remember something good. He can’t. He tries to remember before the camp. He can’t. He tries to remember the faces of his parents, his sisters, his wife…his son. He can’t. His mind is as hopelessly imprisoned in the present as his body is in this abattoir.
They wait.
The sounds of panic are now mixed with those of bodily functions. His nostrils burn with vomit and defecation. He barely notices he is standing in piss. It might be his own. It doesn’t matter.
They wait.
A hand squeezes his. It is as rough and calloused as his own. He can tell neither the age nor the gender. It doesn’t matter. He squeezes back.
They wait.
Coughing and spluttering begins. The air is foul with more than human excrement.
The wait is over.
Richard Chapman is an English teacher from Nottingham that thinks about writing a lot, and on rare occasions actually writes stuff down. Despite this chronic procrastination, he won the South Warwickshire Literary Festival Short Story Award in 2024, and was shortlisted by New2TheScene for their Winter 2025 Short Story Competition.
Photo by William Warby – via flickr
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