Day 658

The bleached white walls send sharp bolts of pain to your eyes.
You wish you could sleep but the guy next to you is hooked in tight and beeping obnoxiously.
They tell you he can't help it, he needs it and there's nowhere to move you to.
It's a blatant lie, this place is full of empty rooms they can stick you in.
You don't know why they insist on keeping you in with the dying ones.

You know you aren't dying.
You aren't.
It's just an infection, it'll pass long before you do.
You know this.
You just know.

They come in shifts and drabs, feet sliding along the floor wearily.
Why are they so tired when there are so few people here?
You've seen peaks at the ward names, there are three rooms stuffed to burst and eight empty.
At least there are no names written on them so you seeume they're empty.
Who knows what poor buggers they've lumped in there and forgotten.

At least they won't forget you, you won't let them.
They gave you a help buzzer and you make damned sure you use it once a day.
Not that they care, not that they come rushing to anyone's aid in here.
Everything is done with the same weary malaise and annoyance.
You catch yourself almost wanting to apologise for inconveniencing them.

Some days others like them come in wearing the same uniform.
There's a triangular symbol on it that you can't quite recognise through the searing pain of the bright white.
They all have those ridiculous hats on and refuse to take them off to talk to you.
Very rude of them and you make sure they know this.
At least they know your name.

One day this ungodly creature comes storming in, screeching and asking for you.
You don't want to see it and you don't know why but you think you know it.
That loud voice hurts your ears and makes your eyes throb.
Footsteps thunder towards you and a blotchy pink thing is suddenly beside you.
It calls you Grandad.

You don't remember it and this upsets it, you think.
The face is hard to read, so full of meat and blood - a stark contrast to your greyish flaps against bone.
It asks if you remember getting sick and you try to say you're doing fine but they can't understand you.
The guy in the next bed starts to groan and reach out.
The fleshy thing is suddenly scared and backs away towards the shift workers.

They try to explain what they think is wrong with you like you aren't right there.
Words like ineffective, contagious and morticious-like state were tossed about with no regard to you.
The thing goes pale, not your kind of pale but getting close, as shift workers say they've set a bed up.
Seems the thing is staying too.
Somehow being near you was enough to "infect" them but you know you're fine.

You feel just fine.