The building's exterior colour reflecting my mood - dreary. A silly brown, dishwater dreary.
I've been here since 11 o'clock this morning, and the time passes at the same speed as the clouds, so slow it would be better of me to name it nonexistent. I hate heights, so just my luck that I should be on the highest floor possible. So high I'm able to look down on the roof of the prison. So close that I'm a stone's throw away from it.
I can see the other exterior parts of this hospital. It's funny how, on the inside, I can recognise it so much it's like my second home. The nurses and doctors know me by name as I know them by theirs. I know that if I need the bathroom. I have to turn right before I get to reception. I know that if I want food I have to go down the long corridor beside the cardiac ward and make the second left. The outside can only be described as foreign. A big metal box shaped generator stands on the top on the roof of another ward in the hospital. Attached to it are tubes and pipes of which their use to me is still uncertain. A long, metal stairs snakes it's way up the wall of the building, a door halfway up it, probably an escape door. Or easy access for the repair men if the generator gives in.
Toshiba fans, three, sit on top of the building. They spin at the speed of a hamster in it's wheel and then slowly plummet back down to a mediocre tumble. This much describes how I feel, the excitement of when a doctor comes in with a file (is it finally me?) and my despair when he finally calls out a name (spoiler: it's not mine).
They have the news on, one one of those tiny TVs suspended high on the wall. There's a woman on, a politician. I suppose I should know her name, but I don't. I won't give her the satisfaction of recognition. She's talking about money (what is any country talking about nowadays, really?). I don't listen but I hear her say "Upon mature reflection..." Ha, if only she could her me. I'd tell her to shove it up backside sideways, upon mature reflection.
New parents with their young children, not knowing how they should tell their children to shut up, unfortunately children of that age don't quite understand that term. I'd have said it 20 times by know if I'd think they'd have understood.
I look back over to the prison. I suppose I can't complain about my position, given theirs. And then my mind starts to wonder about the people in there.
Are they innocent ?
Are they guilty?
Does "innocent till proven guilty really apply anymore ?
And if so, what did they do?
******
Theft ?
The options are endless. Much like the people waiting here alongside me.
My thoughts don't pass the time much. Nothing does.
And then I see birds. Dozens of birds landing on the chimney of the prison. I can't tell what kind, my eyesight isn't that good, all I can make out is that they are white and grey. And then I think about how high up the prison chimney is and how much I hate heights. And then I realise that the prison is a long.. way.. down.