An apple a day

A thick aroma of cleaning supply filled my nostrils as I stared blankly at the dull, white wall of the waiting room. Uneasiness and disease clung to every corner of the hospital and the atmosphere made me immensely anxious. Although the urge to simply stride directly out of the hospital was dominant, I knew I couldn't leave now, not my family, not with the state of my grandfather unknown. A tapping of a nervous foot filled the tense, stagnant air, piercing through the silent halls. No one in the room dared speak a word. I shifted uncomfortably against the torn, teal, vinyl covering of the outdated chairs, muscles longing for movement. My family and I had been seated in the same position for hours, still with no word of my grandfather's health. A murmur of voices echoed down adjacent halls as a man dressed in doctor's wear emerged through a dull, lavender coloured door. The wrinkles already forming on his otherwise youthful face were unnerving, as was his neutral expression. It was clear that he had delivered this speech on too many occasions to too many families. Rigid, we sat and impatiently awaited his word. My mothers eyes so filled with fearful hope when we arrived were looking drained now, heavier. His empathetic voice broke through the silence,
"I'm sorry," he announced. He needn't speak another word. The atmosphere dropped immediately. Tears began to flow from heart broken eyes leaving a glistening, salty trail behind. Ironically, my grandfather owned a fruit shop stocked with many goods; particularly apples. I suppose they couldn't save him this time.