In a dusty hallway on the fifth, almost forgotten floor, lies five beds in a room meant for four.
Welcome to Ward 8: hospice.
The only window faces the park near the hospital, but only the bed next to it can see. The only working light is on the side of the room with three beds, but it hangs over the coma patient, wasting electricity.
There is a nurse, but she wears a surgical mask, hijab, and an eye patch. No one’s seen her face. Random people come and go, after uttering “wrong room”. The only upside is Dr. M, and a rare family visit. Like they only visit now for formality.
And the wifi is in its death throes.
To live out your final ___, you must talk with the other three equally dying patients. Bedridden, white hairs falling out, reliant on others for the simplest of daily tasks. No matter what you accomplished, it wasn’t enough to escape from old age. To go out with not a bang, but a whimper.
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License: Community License w/ Creative Commons