Dirty metal bleed into non committal corridors. Musty, antiseptic boiled cabbage smells snake their way through the cracks. My nose wrinkles, brow knitting as I realise that it hadn’t been on the menu for over 20 years.
The metal box clunks and clatters in its unsteady fashion on its laboured journey upward. Shimmering and shaking, it porpoises to a stop. Its purpose achieved.
Those oppressive doors wearily slide open to reveal a lone nurse, heavily muscled, eyes alert gesturing to the sign in register. A frayed string holds a blunt pencil. Pens would be too dangerous , too sharp, too easily pilfered and hidden for an opportune time to strike.
Carpets sticky, worn and depressed fight the mismatched furniture bolted to the floor. Plastic chairs stacked high as a castle in the middle of the room threaten to topple; locked in a battle with gravity. The television blaring, barely covering the canned laughter echoed by uncertain participants in their desperate attempt to connect to any form of reality. Eyes staring seeing nothing. My sister doesn’t know me today.
This was also submitted to Friday Flash.