H.

H. H is seen on street signs. H represents something. It could represent humanity, health, happiness. But it does not. It it a sign for the hospital. The hospital is one of the most depressing places on earth. Maybe you would disagree. Many would think it would be a funeral or a cemetery. Places where death has arrived. But I say it's the hospital. I went to the hospital to visit my great-grandma. As soon as I stepped in through the automatic doors, the building's nostalgic scent surrounded me. It smelled of older times, better times. Times already gone and passed. Times never to be had again. It almost sucks the hope out of you. That you begin to think, this is it. I'm never leaving this place ever again. TCU. The transitional care unit. A place where the older people live, waiting. Just waiting. Waiting is the greatest pain of all. What are they waiting for? For hope? For the so called golden years? The walls are bland. Even the attempts at decorating do nothing to infuse energy into a dull place. Time almost stops here. It travels at a leisurely pace, moving with its own clock. Every minute crawls by, every hour. Living with strangers, strangers suffering fates similar to yours. Their eyes, they penetrate your soul. Those empty eyes. They see despair, poorly disguised. There is a man. A man who yells. He yells something inaudible, does it every few seconds. No one understands. No one stops him. What is he yelling for? For freedom? For something? Anything? I believe the day the man stops yelling is the day his life ends. Life. This is the end. It stops here.