This Sunday, I went to the hospital alone after ages. I walked all the way, dressed up. I was hungry as I had to run a few blood tests, but I was more cheerful than usual. However, my happiness was short-lived. As soon as I entered the hospital, I saw a family crying, and one lady, in particular, was unconscious. The entire hospital had an eerie vibe that day—dark with very few people around, perhaps others as sick as me. The reception told me to go to the lab and get the name of my test written by their staff. Then began the real horror; it was quieter and darker. On the same floor, there’s the MORGUE, DEATH . Even my doctor sits on the ground floor, so I’ve often found myself staring at the morgue blankly.

I stood there gazing at the gates of the morgue, but the darkness engulfed me, taking me into a trance. Paralyzing my feet and holding my breath, I stood there, staring at the door, wondering about the people who’ve lost their loved ones. The family crying at the reception—maybe their loved one is lying here, cold and dead.

In that moment, I was forced to relive my past again; my mind loves playing games, and the favorite game is to remind me of the day I lost my mother. The thought of cold, dead bodies reminded me of my mother’s cold feet. I still remember the rock-cold feet, the touch haunting me.

They say time heals all pain, but in moments like this, I am thrown back into my past, forced to relive the same day again and again. Standing outside the door of the morgue, I am forced to wonder how an autopsy is done. My own memories are my worst enemy.