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, 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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