I hear the gasps of air breathe out, the constant wheezes, the constant yawns and the constant turns. Each creak of his bed, we all stand still, hoping it would be a new sign.
For there may be none.
Hanging our heads low, arms crossed, eyes shifting to the next bed, and the next, and the next, till I lay upon an elderly woman, grey-haired, hazel eyes, limp as a fish. I bit my lips, not knowing what to do, should I go up to her?, or maybe not, for a nurse came to fill her her hanging bottle.
I picture a body, hanging limped from up above, the knots and ties all tangled together. Pointed toes down to the musty brown coloured moss wooden floor; pale as snow.
I look back at him, the constant breathes and wheezes, eyes shut, sometimes flickering about; not knowing that three figures stands by.
We all stood still, till it was time to go – seventeen hours to be precise- with arms cross still, heads hung low.
Hoping for the better.
By (c) Zona.Heera. 🙂