I cursed the sterile white room where Ann died

As I stood beside Ann’s bed, watching her life slip away, a deep rage boiled inside me. The sterile white walls seemed to mock me, their coldness amplifying the sense of loss that permeated the room.

I cursed the fluorescent lights that buzzed above us, casting a harsh glow over Ann’s pale face. It felt wrong, unnatural, that she should leave this world in such a clinical, soulless environment.

The beeping of the machines monitoring her vitals echoed in my ears, a constant reminder of the fragility of life. I couldn’t bear the thought of Ann’s vibrant spirit being confined by these walls, reduced to mere numbers and statistics.

I clenched my fists, feeling the overwhelming urge to break free from this suffocating space. I wanted to scream, to shatter the silence that hung heavy in the air, to rail against the unfairness of it all.

But in the end, all I could do was hold Ann’s hand and whisper words of love and comfort as she took her last breath. The white room seemed to close in around us, but in that moment, all that mattered was the bond we shared, transcending the sterile confines of the world.

And as I walked out of that room, leaving behind the emptiness that now filled it, I vowed to never forget the warmth of Ann’s presence, even in the coldest of places.