I was at the hospital just now.
Waited for two friggin hours.

And as I entered the room, I instantly disappeared off to the corner chair.

There were foreign words like "mikrozid" and "anti-epileptic drugs".

They sounded murderous, even though the former was probably some brand of a killer tissue.
They boxed up toy cubes and forks (pitchforks?) and random octopus thingies in a plastic, unnatural box. And there were pictures of drugs all about the brightly-lit room.

Although it was meant to comfort, the room (yellowish banana coloured) felt like heaven's gate, like some kind of judgement place, deciding if you meant to dive straight into hell, or fly up into the receiving arms of heaven.

And the nasal croaking of the doctor.

"Ahh, so he's having trouble sleeping, eh?"

Translation: How I wish he could sleep forever so that I won't have to stay back for such meaningless consultations.


"Yeah, I'll increase his dosage."

Translation: In hopes of poisoning him, or perhaps render him to a living zombie.


"Well, if he doesn't sleep in the night, of course he'll sleep in the day."

Translation: Either way he's going to sleep forever.


"We'll try out this, or maybe something stronger?"

Translation: Why don't we just kill him off. And hold his peace forever.


And the nurse was gazing at me as though I was an experiment gone wrong. Despite her blank face, I could tell that she was judging me.

She had no right to.

Ironically, I was reading "My Sister's Keeper" by Jodi Picoult.
And it talked about how unfamiliar the hospital was, a condemning place.