The sun rises over the glass window panes. It penetrates the room and illuminates the whole room. In its volatile, playful rays, the slowly falling drops glitter like crystal tears. Tears vanish inexorably into a bottomless abyss. The room is quiet. Everything is so white, so soothing, so... Exhaustive. The drops as if disappear into a deep pond, continue going down the sinkholes and mix into a red wine-like riverbed at the end of their journey. The infusion solution dries into the vein of a patient fighting for his health, for his life. Even when you arrive in the room, you will be distressed, and you will be ingested by the unpleasant smell of hospital disinfection. 

Such a soothing silence is disturbed by the heavy, sleeping breath of people who are surrendered and have no idea about what else they will have to face. The effect of the sun, which proclaims life to all plants and animals, is as if were being muted by hospital windows. Dry cracked lips. People in the face of death and so attached to life. Their poor condition; dehydrated skin. Painful places, lying down to the bone, created by waiting too long for the end. Shades of skin fall off, and rotting flesh resents it. Undignified. People this sick are increasingly prone to depression and delicateness. Their helplessness, their dependence on the help of the sisters, scares me.

The anxiety and fear in their eyes are injected into my soul and the inside part is burning. They're looking for a foothold. Their will and desire to live knocks me to my knees. I don't blame them. They have a right to hope for something and to believe in their recovery. It's not their fault, and the nurses are here to help them. I'm only 17 years old! I've never experienced anything called a life's failure or hardship. But other people's suffering fills me with despair and resentment at the same time. The desire to help and at the same time indifference, the urge to avoid human pain and hardship. I deeply ponder over their suffering. I get a concussion every day.

I've never seen a dying man before. Only now, in the hospital. I'm having a hard time dealing with this. You're standing by a white, suddenly so tight bedside area that'll probably be empty in a few hours. A patient with deadly pale eyes is staring at you with his eyes down. They can't see you. They don't see the sister's uniform. Furthermore, they fall asleep slowly in the arms of death, clutching your hand convulsively. That's when you hear your own heartbeat. A bony hand squeezes you in a rush of deadly ups and downs. At that moment, your own shadow frightens you, and the patient's heavy, trembled breath, barely noticeable, stings your ears. A cold sweat flows down your forehead, freezes in your back, and my mouth inadvertently whispers a prayer. A man dies here, his eyes are blurred, for he is already in another world with one foot. And then you feel his grip fade. And then... Then it's quiet. He no longer tingles his fingers in the duvet, no longer gasps, no longer sobbing. He's not asking you to let him die any more. It's over.

Spots begin to appear on the body, lips begin to get wet. He stares into the ceiling with empty, lifeless eyes, and the painful grimace on his face suggests that he suffered a great deal. I can't take it professionally, impersonally. I'm keeping my hand in his for a long time, and it's going to take me a while to get over the feeling of his head buzzing, blood pounding in my temples, and my mouth dries. Before I ring the nurse to report that the patient has just died, I have to lean against the bedside barrier and take a deep breath. It's not helping.

All the time the sisters are taking care of the dead body, I'm standing in seclusion, and if I wasn't traumatized, I'd be crying. My stomach is getting sick, and it's going to be dark in front of my eyes. I have to get out of the room. It hurts my heart to see the sisters treat that empty shell of a human being like a piece of meat. I wonder whose father, brother, husband, uncle it was. The friendly grip I feel on my shoulder can belong to none other than my classmate and friend Yaqub. I'm grateful to him for that. At that point, that's exactly what I need. A single gesture without words is enough. I know exactly what he's showing.

AND THE HOSPITAL RUN WON'T STOP. We continue to deal with patients as if no one had died. I've always wanted to help people, but I can't do it. The hospital is killing me. I can't deal with the psyche and physical condition of the sick. It's made me sick and sad at the same time. We do a lot for people, but it doesn't fill me with a warm sense of utility, self-worth. Vice versa. It dreads me to death when you're in need and there's nothing I can do. Many times people have failed to read me and thrown their dissatisfaction in my face. God! I'm only 17 years! I want to have fun, I want to talk to my friends, I want to be naive and foolish, I don't want to face a harsh reality. Likewise, I feel like there's still time for that; time to wake up from a childhood utopia. From a child's dream of a beautiful world without all evil.

The world is falling on the hospital bed. It's moving at the speed of light, and even though I'm setting my hands, it's impossible to catch it. I know that. It scares me. None of us, healthy people, can imagine how terrible it is to live every day under stress and anxiety, crushed by a severe illness. I would chain all selfish and inconsiderate people to a bed to show them what fear is. But even though I'm healthy, I'm scared, and my mental health is collapsing. GOD HELP---I'M ONLY 17 YEARS OLD !!!