A Confrontation With The Red

I watch as they crowd around. The instruments they use and the struggle she puts up. I discuss her future with the doctor. I can’t help but let a tear escape.
It is only after a nurse alerts me that I realise I’m gripping the hard steel of the bed and my knuckles are white. I stand, unable to move, as they fit all the tubes into her skeletal frame and her eyes roll back into her head.
“It’s safe now, Mr Hend.”
I touch her hand, not surprised at how cold it is. Her pulse is a faint beat against the whirr of the machines that keep her alive. “No. I won’t let you.”
“Mr Hend, we have to. Her behaviour is too erratic; she has harmed other patients before.”
They cart her off down the dank corridor and I wonder whether she will ever forgive me and whether she even knows she is like this because of me.

There is a crash and screams. I run down the East Wing, alarmed at the bloody hand prints smeared on the wall.
She is surrounded by bodies; the doctors.
“TELL ME!”, she screams at me. “TELL ME WHY I AM LIKE THIS !”

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