It's the smell - of pain and suffering, illness and agony. Tangy, stinking copper winning the war against powerless air fresheners every. single. spray. In a place that ought to be equal parts birth and death, why is it that the former forever prevails as the lingering scent in the stale, recycled air?
It's the colours on the wall - falsely bright: cheap, peeling shades of spinach and puce. Washed-out artwork merrily point the way to the paediatric ward: misleading markers left behind by patients long since recovered and gone.
It's the winding hallways I encounter - mazes snaking around the building, one wing to another: identical, interchangeable, disorienting. Moans of discomfort find their way out from behind closed doors, creating a dissonant chorus.
It's the disgusting meals - served three times daily on dull silver trays, only just enough to keep you alive. Blobs of unidentifiable purées, strictly chosen to match the diet: check no beef, no fish, liquids only. They call it "food", but the whiff that makes it past the fortress of my hands into my protesting nose tells otherwise.
It's the eerie, calm stillness all around - the unsettling heaviness that falls upon me as I bracingly survey the room. Tick tock tick tock taunts the clock. Keeping pace each as each second. Minute. Stretches. Into. Hours.
Yet, what makes me want to turn and run is not the smell nor colours. I can navigate the labyrinth and stomach the slop, even shatter the sinister silence. But what finally breaks me is the sight of my brother (usually so animated, bustling, and vibrant) lying dormant, eyes closed: completely defeated by the morphine drip, drip, dripping into his arm.
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