Tick, tick, tick;the never ending persistence of Father
Time. How many seconds had passed? How many minutes? Hours? And
how many souls had departed this merciless vale? A scene painted
before restless eyes as they wait unwilling and in dire need in
the desolate hospital waiting room.
The room itself is as bruised and battered as
its current inhabitants. Shreds of sunlight may never reach the
deepest cambers, but on a lucky day it may break the utter
dreariness and illuminate in an almost dream-like state. However,
to wounded souls what day is ever lucky? Put through ruthless
inquisition, the mighty beast that was once an admirable room and
overflowing with life was put to waste with blood on the walls
and screams down the halls. Once a mighty tyrant the room now
lays still and silent. It sacrificed its pride to those bloodied
and to those who died. Now filled with utter despair and with no
significance, but left with one purpose; to beckon the bridge
from the underworld and guide forlorn souls to a place no one
knows as Father Time stands by and ticks on.
Within the setting, devastation wreaks havoc as
tears are shed again and again. The brutality in which one has
cause to sit in the dust encrusted chairs is sickening. The tangy
odor of blood wafts around the room and it is almost near
certainty that screams can be heard. The lost souls within the
morbidity of the room are yet to relinquish their sanity, but are
approaching the crossroads between the sane and the insane.
Still, Father Time ticks on; undisturbed by the heartache.
The space is filled with an eerie silence. The
individuals within the eccentric mass of bodies avert their
heavy-lidded eyes. Not even so much as a whisper flies across the
dead air. Their grim faces will soon become weary and haggard. As
for their kin who lay resting and bleeding on grimy gurneys;
their fate has yet to be shared. Sheer terror and dread runs
through the blood of the room-dwellers. All at once they sit
rigid and still, but they fidget with their sweaty palms. Their
hearts pump foul adrenaline throughout as they are forever
trapped in an unbreakable coma of horror and forever trying to
outwit Father Time, but still he waits. Tick, tick,
Father Time will stand by as the
souls linger; looking out with fear and hate. How clear yet
incoherent these lives can be. The final minutes shall pass by
yet the souls shall not see how time does fly. Their emotions are
plastered across their face; sadness, sorrow and heartbreak.
Father Time shall soon descend with his wrath in a wraith-like
form; covered in black. In the waiting room of the hospital
tender souls still wait on those they love, praying they do not
renounce this life and take off on an endless flight. Tick,
tick and the clock shall strike; in comes the nearing night.
Father Time shall sweep in; abrupt. Tick, tick,
tock. Time is up.
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