Point of View: Roman, First Person
Timeline: Present Day
Death is white.
Death is white.
Death is white, staining uniforms red.
But that's not what they said.
They fed me spoonfuls of lies that turned to lead instead of sugar.
But as much as I tried to convince myself otherwise, the wise side of me knows that Death cannot be defined, but wild side of me knows that Death has to be white.
Some might argue that Death must be black. Black must be the color of death. Darkness, mystery, uncertainty.
But perhaps those people have never been on the inside hospital.
For hospital rooms are nearly always white, and for me the color and the terrible smell of cleaning supplies and thinly veiled despair will forever be linked, as well as the uncomfortable amount of needles and frowning people in sitting rooms that can't seem to let their eyes linger on any one place for too long less their fear and anxiety for their loved ones swallow them whole.
And I hate this feeling, hate the helpless waiting, waiting, waiting. It's amazing how much energy waiting takes. It's a curse, constantly bracing yourself for the worse because their worth is worth the world. You learn the steady burn of holding back tears and fears . And while you're wordlessly wishing that it'll be alright, it'll be just fine. But it's trying to try not to cry or ask why and not picture the sky while your loved one could die -
Cause without him?
The world fades to
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