The hallway was long and narrow; the ceilings a lifetime away. He hated the whiteness of the walls, the smell that crept under his skin and buried itself in his nose for hours afterwards. He hated having to come here. He hated the cancer that had so suddenly pounced on his wife.

He felt tears stinging his eyes and he wiped them away angrily. He couldn’t allow himself to cry. Not for her. And not now. He wanted to be there for her those few hours she had left, save her from the guilt her family would inflict upon her one last time.

© 2016

Friday Fictioneers, 30 September 2016

Photo prompt provided by Amy Reese

Published by Fia Coldwell

Suspense Writer

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