I cursed the sterile white room where Ann died

As I stood in the sterile white room, the cold linoleum floor seemed to mock me, reminding me of the loss I had just experienced. Ann, my beloved grandmother, had taken her last breath in this very room, surrounded by the beeping machines and fluorescent lights that were supposed to save her.

I cursed the impersonal nature of the hospital room, the lack of warmth and comfort that was supposed to offer solace in times of grief. It felt like a prison, trapping me in my sorrow and refusing to let me escape.

The memories of Ann’s laughter and kindness seemed so out of place in this sterile environment, a stark contrast to the machines that beeped relentlessly, a grim reminder of her absence.

As I looked around the room, I realized that it was not just Ann who had died here, but a part of me as well. The emptiness that filled the space echoed my own feelings of loss and despair.

My anger and frustration grew as I thought about how Ann deserved so much more than this sterile white room, a place that felt more like a mausoleum than a place of healing.

I wanted to scream, to break free from the suffocating atmosphere of the room and the memories it held, but instead, I remained silent, my tears falling silently to the floor.

As I finally left the room, I vowed to never return, to never let the sterile white walls haunt me with their reminder of death and loss.

But deep down, I knew that no matter where I went, a part of me would always remain in that room, forever cursed by the pain of losing Ann.