I walked through the halls of the hospital. 15…16…17…19…23… My eyes scanning for the room number ’55’.
I felt cold. I felt weak. I felt weaker than the people behind these doors on my sides. My legs were starting to abandon me, going shivery and weaker by each flying minute. One room (25) was empty. The wardrobe open and the bed scattered and empty, with only a packed bag on top of it. And my heart squeaked and shivered. Some patient in there, died.
To me, I’d rather go in a haunted house with ghosts living inside, than to enter a hospital. It’s not because of the blood, the pale old patients, the ugly nurses, or the awful food. It was because of the idea shivering through my head of how many times other legs were running across the hallways, who were now deep in their graves as yellow half eaten skeletons and dirt. It was because of how many lost souls there are now. At a time before, even if an hour ago, someone may have laid here on the ground, sobbing over his beloved one, knowing they’re not coming back. And it’s not only the halls, no.
And with all the thoughts and imaginations crawling in my head and scrapping my mind off, I made it, room 55. It’s not only a room I entered to visit a sick relative. It was a room, where once cold bodies lay on this bed, with nothing but their breaths brushing across the walls at night. It occurs to every one of us, they know they’re dying, they can feel it, and we can too. We can feel their bodies weaken, and their hearts tiring from the battle inside of them ‘to live, or not to live?’ was this what their hearts were asking?
“Hi, I’ve missed you,” I tried to fight my voice from cracking as I walked towards my uncle, lying on this bed.
“I’m turning grandpa, my dear,” he moaned, as we pictured our grandpa about 2 years ago, laying on a bed like this one, and 40 days later, his bed was empty.
“Don’t worry, you’re going to be alright,” I tried to comfort him, but he was the one comforting me. I didn’t know what to think, but I hoped that his bed wouldn’t go empty too.