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 | Waverly Hills Sanatorium.....
entry by Brat Bondage
3/10/2005 2:42 AM
| The vacant halls and quite now. Devoid of life, and parched of its previous inhabitant's activities, it counts its final days, in peeling paint and crumbling plaster.
Or is it vacant at all?
If one listens closely, you can still commune with the spirits who reside here. Of those long ago departed, and of the routiene of life, inside these dreary, hospital walls.
There is an echo of feet, shuffling throughout the halls. Prodding and feeble, the young patient wanders disoriented down the hallway, in a medicinal-induced haze. Pale, anemic, and mobidly thin, the wall she leans against is the only thing that is keeping her frail torso, upright and mobile. With her lungs afire, every breath feels like an inferno, and every step a mile in length. Her once pristinely white gown, now caked in bloody spewdum, serves as her own "scarlet letter" she must bear. Accompanied by a persistant, uncontrolled cough everywhere she goes, it becomes a shadow that looms over her. A constant reminder, that the end is always near.
A potent scent of disinfectant, is still detectable. Eminating from the cracks, of bleached tile floors, and whitewashed, sanitized walls, its overpowering aroma was not only used to erradicate germs, but to purge the constant, overpowering stench of death, that prevailed over all. Lodging itself in everything. From the habitually scrubbed linens, that lined the rickety, iron gurneys, to the drab green coloring of patient rooms. Inescapable, it left the dead soiling their bed sheets, and the living to ponder, just who would be the next to go.
The squeaking of wheels, announce a patient being prepped for the operating room. Only used, as a last ditch effort, to save someone from the "White Plague". The physical trauma involved with this dreaded procedure, is only surpassed by the psychological scarring it leaves. As patients realize, it is only performed when someone is essentially on "Death's Door", and there is very little hope for them left. Much like an inmate's trip to the Gas Chamber, you pray it's quick, and painless.
Deep with the unlit bowls of the basement, vermin nestle amongst the stainless steel morgue trays. Creating and perpetuating life, in a place where only death was once fostered, it is only these rodents denziens, that could inhabit an envoirnment so inhospitable, and terror inducing to the human psyche. Adjacent to the morgue, a double set of doors lead to a structure, as equally traumatizing in nature. Like some 500-foot cadaver assembly line, the notorious "Death Tunnel" as it was coined, sits, in all its infamous glory. A monumental structure, of weathered stone and aging concrete, there are wheel tracks still visible in the base of its floor. Worn away, by thousands upon thousands of trips down the mountain, to the awaiting hearse below. Forged with a sense of humanity in mind, its creation spared the living the indignity, of having to watch the deceased paraded past them, like rotting meat unfit for market. Sparing their feelings, and shielding them, from the bitter truth. Which simply put, was this....
Although some walked out of Waverly Hills, more often than not, they were carried.
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