Ward Seventeen
This would be a good script. I need one of you to get on it quick.
You walk into Ward Seventeen, where his bandaged body lies in a bright hospital room.
The machines there are beeping, but not too loudly. Those sounds complement the silence from the corridor. It sounds harmonised. Musical, even. The symphony is as beautiful as it is confusing. Ward Seventeen is the Intensive Care Unit at the end of the corridor, an emotionally ugly place.
You have been walking down that corridor for a year, carrying ugliness in your head. If the walls could talk, they would whisper your ugly thoughts every time your soles touch the floor.
The doctors have been telling you there is no need to visit every so often and that they will call you if there is a significant change. They keep saying there is no need to frequent the hospital as much as you do to visit someone who cannot even blink to clean his eyelids.
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