The following passage is a true story, it's not a call for pity, it's just how I release my emotions. These are the thoughts that raced through my mind, these are the words I felt.
The nurses hands were a shade lighter on the colour scale. The sun could not reach them where she was, they were hidden beneath rubber gloves, a necessity to keep blood and other unwanted substances off her skin; they were foreign, they were dirty.
Was that why they were lacking colour? Or was it possibly because of nights spent scrubbing her hands in her kitchen sink, bottle of bleach turned over beside her, rag in her hands; scrubbing until the skin peeled off, doing anything to get the stains of depression off of her fingers, to give her a new slate, clean of all the imperfections of hospital work, clean of the misery, clean of the guilt that came along with being unable to save people.
I notice her hands, of all things, as I wait, unwilling to look past the green curtain that separates my father from the rest of the world, as if too keep away disease and terror. It's not working, never will. Privacy? With screams coming from behind those curtains, there's no such thing. A man walks over to mop up the blood on the floor, my fathers mess. He moans words indistinguishable to my ears, cries for his mommy. A little girl from across the room cries for her mommy, too, and her little brother calms her down, telling her its over and there's no need to cry.
I wish somebody would tell me such sweet words.