November.

As part of my English assignment, I had to write a descriptive essay and I chose the title « The Hospital Ward ». I went slightly out of point but I felt like completing it and sharing it.

The Hospital Ward

As I strolled down the exhausting ward, I watched the familiar faces disappear into the void of the clinical labyrinth, which, to an outsider, seemed like a maze of madness that solely the sane could escape. The various framed paintings of lunatic patients still hung high on the icy walls, as if they were tributes to their existence.

The mental hospital had not changed much since the first day I stepped into it. The endless murky and eerie aisles of rooms and foyers, burst with sharp cries of agony as if the devil itself was tearing their minds apart. Even today, I am unsure as to whether I could qualify them as people or not. They can no longer distinguish between reality or fiction, they are neither alive nor dead. They are stuck in a limbo of insanity, which gradually deprives them of consciousness of thoughts and leads them to possess no more. They would sit and rock on a chair in the corridor, murmuring to themselves atrocities that would give a normal person nightmares. The paint on the walls was peeling off slowly, but gradually, exposing the ghostly alabaster that was used to build the hospital. It was not an inviting environment and I had my doubts about its effects on the patients’ well-being.

The cool tones that decorated the windows – a gradient of blues, from sapphire to aquamarine – forbidding the sunlight from peeking in. The marble floor reflected the coldness of the curtains. In fact, the whole ward had a rather austere atmosphere. Happiness was a concept that was unknown, however, the pain was deeply engraved in the rock. Even the gentle wind, swirling from one ward to the other seem to carry a sense of fatigue but then, there was her. An old patient who went by the name of “Margie” made me realise, a few years ago, what hell really felt like. Margie was a beautiful woman with a long, luscious copper mane that she brushed religiously every morning. She was slender and sensual; the breeze she created as she passed by left everyone out of breath. Margie could be described as an energy vampire. She would suck out all your strength while whispering endearing stories that could have rivalled with the most stunning ballads. Margie was of an extreme pallor. Some used to say it was because she had been interned here for so long that she became a permanent part of it, almost as if she were a banal piece of furniture.

The wards were a dream of mine since I was a teenager but they became a golden prison, my own maze, in which I lost my sanity. I gave up my peace of mind. All these years, my immaculate blouse acted as a protection against emotional attachment and kept me from pitying the cases. However, it became a sanctuary that engulfed me in its blinding alabaster. I may be a doctor, but I am no hero. My hands are dirty with indifference and my eyes adopted an eternal dimness.

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November.

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