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Relatives' Morphine

In the corner the television babbles contently to itself. Next to me a woman stabs into a phone, jabbing violently at the buttons. She is crying, like myself.

Nurses in crisp white uniforms come and go, sometimes with clipboards, sometimes with sad news.

There is a coffee machine in the corner that is constantly employed, dribbling out the dark liquid - the relatives' morphine.

I'm on my seventh cup.

"Excuse me?"

She is looking down at me. She doesn't have a clipboard so it must be the sad news.

Story by:

Florence Molly

12 May 2013