[CONTENTID1] fill the space between my lungs [/CONTENTID1]

[CONTENTID2]Wordcount: 1291

He hates the smell of it, the harsh chemicals invading his nose in an unpleasant manner. He hates the whole vibe of the place, the sterile redolence that the building instantly attacks you with in an effort to overwhelm your senses and make you forget about the underlying scents that they’re trying to mask: death, disease, tears, sweat, and lots of blood. He looks at the white walls that seem to scream the word safe at him, but he can only see a trail of letters that oddly spell out quarantine when he squints hard enough.

To say that he hates hospitals is an understatement, especially when it comes to this one, but he trudges on. He walks with purpose towards the room at the end of the hall, idly wondering if he should have brought flowers with him, debating whether a fresh posy of dandelions would serve as a much needed change to the air or if the strong traces of antiseptic in it would just kill the flowers as slowly as the virus is doing to his friend. There’s not much time to turn around and walk out the way he got in though, because he’s suddenly standing in front of an intimidating door, its pale blue façade looking immaculate at first glance.

On second glance, he notices the cracks on the worn paint, evidence of the time that it has spent slathered on an expansive piece of wood whose sole purpose is to keep in the person inside rather than keep people outside. On third glance, he takes in the single smudge of rust on the door handle, an almost imperceptible flaw that takes years of seeing the same thing over and over again with the same tired eyes to notice. He thinks that the rust is testament to how the thing that they need most to survive is ultimately the thing that will kill them in the end. He secures the protective gear over his head, tight enough to prevent himself from being contaminated. When he thinks that the oxygen gas is settling finely in and out of his lungs, he slices his card through the reader, the telltale beep instructing him to push the door open.

He hates the smell of it, the air that he breathes in invading his nose in an unpleasant manner. He hates the fact that he needs the RPE in the first place, the pretentious equipment that strives to appease his mind that the air he’s breathing in won’t kill him after 10 or so years of exposure to it. After 4 years of working in the quarantine department, he knows better than to rely on the deceitful sense of safety that their meager hospital equipment could offer. He knows that the real danger isn’t the disease that is clawing its way around his patient’s lungs, rendering him unable to get up from the sti