I cursed the sterile white room where Ann died

As I stood in the cold, sterile white room, watching Ann take her final breaths, a wave of anger and sorrow washed over me. The stark walls and fluorescent lights seemed to mock the warmth and vibrancy that had once filled her life.

I cursed the hospital staff for their clinical efficiency, for their inability to see Ann as anything other than a patient. They moved around her with mechanical precision, their words devoid of any true empathy.

I cursed the machines that beeped and whirred, their relentless reminder of the fragility of life. They seemed to mock Ann’s once vibrant spirit, reducing her to a series of numbers and metrics.

I cursed myself for not being able to save her, for not being able to shield her from the sterile environment that ultimately became her final resting place. The guilt and regret weighed heavy on my heart.

As I left the room, tears streaming down my face, I vowed to never forget the injustice of Ann’s passing. I vowed to fight against the cold, sterile world that had taken her from me.

And as I walked away, I whispered one final curse to the sterile white room, bidding farewell to the place where Ann took her last breath.