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HU 481 PEK—BOS
The clashing scents of bleach, blood, antiseptics, and vomit. The constant beeping and buzzing of monitors. The drip, drip, dripping of an iv. The worst part is the aura of death.
No matter how much the nurses try to dress it up. No matter how many colored ribbons or “you can do it” stickers they decorate the place with, many, including me, are dying. Dying slow, painful deaths.
20 feet across of me sat an older man. His eyes were dark and sunken, and his greying hair was tied back so tightly that it looked painful. I watched him as he eyed the sidewalk below him and the people around him. He seemed to be fixated on something, furrowing his eyebrows and pouting his lips. Then he looked at me.
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