Hilda Van Duinen
6 October 2014

A Stuffed Toy Bear Walking down a long hallway with bleached white tile, little flecks of paint decorate each square to disguise the drops of food and bits of trash. What room number was it, 1306 or 1309—pretty sure it was bed B? Check the chart. The bleached tile hugs the wall and hides underneath the rustic orange-colored plastic border, creating a gap amid the tile and the wall where the occasional stray syringe cap is lazily tucked in between it. Feet are throbbing; stomach is rumbling, long day, clocked in at four this morning, just want to sleep forever. Following this plastic trimming, the hall seems endless, does it turn left or right, maybe a dead end—you could rarely ever tell if it weren’t for the directional signs. I think this is the room; the girl with the plush stuffed toy bear they said. The wall itself is also white, neutral, seldom decorated with anything other than policies and inspirational posters which are not really meant to look at, more for comfort really. Besides, you could hardly ever see the posters as the halls are constantly filled with running feet. There are lights everywhere, on the ceiling, on the floor, on the walls, above every room, however the hall is surprisingly dim, making it difficult to read patient numbers on doors. Found it, the room with the girl with the plush stuffed toy bear. Finally get to sit. A firm cheap sofa chair that isn’t meant for long term visits—mostly only for show and requirement—but feet are throbbing, body is tired, wishing the pain down both legs couldn’t be felt, so the discomfort of the chair is actually comfortable. Looking out of the room into the hall, everything is rushing by seen only for a second and no longer; a crash cart flashes by, blurred faces, a haze of multiple color-coded staff, the occasional gleam of something metallic. The nurse’s station,