The Hospital Doors

I'm standing at the hospital doors with fresh tears on my face. Salty drops absorb the nicotine hanging in the air. My father sits on the floor in a crumpled heap, his burning cigarette counting down the seconds, until we must return to my waxwork mother and sit with her having a mumbling meaningless conversation, her deathly silence piercing our efforts. Crows circle above our heads. They scream in mockery, relishing the morbidity. The crisp autumn air bites at our skin, trying it's best to force us back inside but we resist as we know what awaits. As worried faces pass us, bustling through the hospital doors, I think to myself that I would give everything to turn the clock back a few hours and be in their shoes. The final sprinkling of ash dusts the floor and my foot smears the tab butt across the ground. My tears land in the sludgy mess. I wipe them away, turn around and walk back into hell.