Calamity

• Shalyn Hogg, Grade 10
• Short Story
• 2017

The hospital had become so familiar to me now as I entered. Cold air blasted from the air cons and strong antiseptic scents drifted along every hallway. Wails and cries of grief and despair echoed out of the waiting rooms and the ding of the elevators echoed through the building every few minutes. Telephones rung at reception desks; beds rolled along the hallways lit up by fluorescent lights and coins tinkled down the vending machines as a clunk would sound indicating their purchase. The sounds of frantic families could constantly be heard as they waited on the news of their loved ones. Shaking away the sudden sadness weighing me down, I pulled my shoulders back and moved forward. Pushing my way through the crowds lingering in the waiting room, I walked to the heavy wooden doors that lead onto the hallways. I shoved them open and then started navigating my way through the familiar hallways, the layout mapped out in my head permanently. I finally skid to a stop when I recognise a sign on the wall, and realise I had drifted away into my thoughts, almost missing the door.
I turn the handle silently on the door labelled 581 and slip into the room, shutting the door behind me. Padding my way across the cheap, scratchy carpet I head towards the plastic chair next to the bed, sitting in the same spot from my previous visits. I lower myself down and finally look up. Her hair is tangled in a mess haphazardly around her head, spread across the pillow, the black contrasted against the white cotton. Beneath the thin hospital gown her shoulders stick out as the fabric drapes over her, slightly too big to fit her body. Her arms are resting on top of the sheets and I cast my eyes over the cast on her arm, decorated with intricate designs I worked on over my time here. I take a deep breath and look back up to her face, my eyes zeroing in on her eyes. Closed as they have been for months.
I look around the room. Resting on the side table is a newspaper dated for today, containing recent tragedies, however the front cover is still the same calamity. Same victims. Same place. But different variation of the real story. I quickly look away, shutting down my mind from letting the images rush in. I briefly wonder why there is even a newspaper here if no other visitors come in to the room, but then realise I don’t really care. I look at the clock on the wall, the thin handles moving slowly around the face, and realise I need to go soon. I look back at her face and sweep some hair away from her forehead.
“It’s not your fault, Selena.” I whisper, the same line I say every time before I leave. Then I push myself up from my chair and walk out the door hoping that she’ll soon wake up.