I cursed the sterile white room where Ann died

As I sat by her bedside, holding her fragile hand, I couldn’t help but feel the anger bubbling inside me. The harsh fluorescent lights overhead seemed to mock the life slowly draining out of her.

The beeping of machines and the clinical smell of disinfectant only added to my sense of despair. I cursed the sterile white walls that had witnessed her final moments, feeling the weight of loss pressing down on me.

Ann had been a vibrant soul, full of laughter and love. Seeing her now, pale and motionless, was a cruel twist of fate that I couldn’t accept.

I whispered words of love and regret into her ear, hoping that somehow she could hear me in her comatose state. The tears flowed freely as I tried to come to terms with the fact that I was losing her.

I cursed the doctors and nurses for their cold efficiency, unable to see the pain and heartbreak that they were causing. To them, she was just another patient in a long line of tragedies.

But to me, she was everything. My heart and soul, my reason for living. And now, she was slipping away from me in a sterile white room that offered no solace, no comfort.

I raged against the injustice of it all, the unfairness of losing someone so precious to me. The room seemed to close in around me, suffocating me with its clinical indifference.

And as Ann took her final breath, I vowed to never set foot in that cursed white room again. It held too many painful memories, too much sorrow and regret.

I would remember Ann as she was in life, vibrant and full of joy. Not as the shell of a person lying on a cold hospital bed, surrounded by the sterile white walls that had witnessed her passing.