I have sat in this dank, dreary hallway
outside my grandfathers room for a little over 3 days. It is my home.
I have forced myself to become accustom to that stinging aroma of
hand sanitizer, and I myself now must hold an aura of the scent. That
constant hum of machinery is managing to be a sedative to my
fractured mind state. I must wait. I have been told it would be a
week at the soonest before my grandfather would even speak again,
none the less stand and come home. The floor seems to be like a nice
soft meadow of grass, beckoning me into the embrace of sleep. I can
see the doctor coming towards me. He is a shadow walking with his
head in a low hang. I can only think the worst of whats to come. My
mouth has that sandy dry taste as he approaches closer. He appears to
be a mountain towering over me as I sit and wait for him to speak. He
speaks but I have droned out all that he is saying as I hear an all
to frightening sound. The sound of a flatline.
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