Did I Fall Or Was I Pushed?

Ting! Went the buzz of the microwave.

Time: Ashen grey.

I sat in the dark of the kitchen looking at the orange indicator that said Ting!

I'm not ready to go back.

Fast forward eighty three hours later.

I'm dressed in my dirty blue scrubs of human stains and diseases, crouching low beside the patient's bed holding her eightyish old hand. Her helpless family crying around me. The patient wanted to pull out her feeding tube. She wanted to die. The family cried at their helplessness. I held her hand lightly. The longest hour of my life.

Ring! Went someone's phone.

Time: Sunlight rarely.

I was in the train. The sun was smothering my eyes.

I'm not ready to go back.

Backward seven hours ago, my cubical wailed. Three beds, three women crying, sobbing and moaning for the entire day. Their wailing were haunting. Their pain vocalised. One was going crazy, one was rotting off in flesh and bits and the other was dying.

What a fuckup career.

Click, click, click went the brand new pen torch in my hand. Click and shine into the souls of others through their constricted pupils.

I only saw misery.

Twenty four hours ago, I was at the ceiling watching myself working. I was wondering why did I do this to myself.

Snap, snap, snap went the lightbulbs in my head. There were no more life in them.

Blink, blink, blink. Twenty four hours ago, I looked into the pupils in the mirror, hoping to catch a glimpse of my soul.

Time: Ashen grey.

I'm not really to go back.