Personal Narrative-Home

The Wet had awoken me again. Much like the patients of the hospice ward, it too had taken permanent residency amongst us feeble, withering souls. Its humid and ungodly presence magnified the discomfort I felt laying between the crisp, sterile sheets of the hospital bed. My senses were only exposed to the incessant beeping of heart monitors, the irritating glare and buzz of the fluorescent lights and the wretched stench of the Wet. But a soft glare from the moon that bathed the room with light radiates a strikingly minimalistic but beautiful aura. For a moment, I feel the overwhelming tides of self-pity and sadness recede, no longer engulfing me with the melancholy and regret had come and gone in these past days.

During these rare, brief moments of consciousness I am, as usual, exceedingly bored. I was left to die without the loving circle of family around me, unlike my roommates who were accompanied at all times. I was left to die without recreation, without the company of Paul and without my dear Beethoven, Liszt and Czerny. Awaiting death seemed a more tedious task than I had anticipated. …show more content…
However, I am surprised to see a sleeping Paul who has taken refuge on a rigid, plastic chair. Fully succumbed to jet lag, his legs are sprawled across the floor and his arms wrapped around that cheap book of poetry from which he read to me. His hands are securely placed within the pages of the book, his fingers spread upon them as if they were guarding the precious lines of romantic