The cold room looked more like a morgue to him. The antiseptic odor in the past had made his nauseous but not anymore. Surrounded by hoards of machines he lay quietly. Something he had not done in a long time. He had always been up to something. Today, he was bound by syringes and saline that kept dripping colorlessly into the pipe. A pipe that kept him from going into the oblivion.
He had seen them often, these black figures, the so-called messengers of death. They seemed to roam freely in the whole ward. But somehow they seem to have forgotten his bed number. The pricking needles did not hurt anymore. The color of blood was just red.
Earlier in the year, the doctors had diagnosed him with renal failure. At his age it was fatal. Fatal yes, but only for his body. The body which had forced him to live for fifty-two years longer than he wanted to. He had lost his soul long back, he was sure of that. People came to visit one by one. They came, stood by his bed, looked on and left. He co…
Earlier in the year, the doctors had diagnosed him with renal failure. At his age it was fatal. Fatal yes, but only for his body. The body which had forced him to live for fifty-two years longer than he wanted to. He had lost his soul long back, he was sure of that. People came to visit one by one. They came, stood by his bed, looked on and left. He co…