Angel of Death
She walks wards of clinical hinterland and navigates paths of life and death.
Her uniform is always clean, crisp and blindingly white. She looks like the model professional and her smile is that of cherubim.
She gleams brightly at the visitors.
But they infest the hospital. They are like parasites around their sick. They only care for themselves.
Inheritance due, perhaps? The pretence of care driven by the soothing of their personal guilt?
She knows they’d rather be at home watching the game, swigging the poison of alcohol or wallowing in debauchery.
She knows not if the people she puts to sleep are going to heaven or hell. She doesn’t care. She cannot see angels or demons hovering over the beds of the sick in their land of eternal greyness and hope devoid.
At her side, the needles and cotton-wool. She is doing them a favour and releasing hospital resources for those that might benefit. She is an angel.
Although I didn’t get a nod for this I was very pleased with the effort (which is equally important).