A night in the hospital
There's something so scary about hospital rooms. The bland interior, bright cold lights, aluminium beds, and the blue bedsheets, It's like the set of a Stranger Things episode. It's crazy how minute all your problems become after a night in the hospital. All the things I boast about suddenly feel meaningless. The old crappy home I always complain about is apparently the only place I would want to be right now. Everywhere my eyes see, there's distress. Tears swimming through weary eyes. On the left there's a mother breaking down from the joy of seeing her daughter healthy, on the right there's a son crying beside his numb father, now a corpse. A night in the hospital is an experience in itself, which I would never want to have again. Au revoir.
