The end

This is the place of fear, desperation and death. It is a vast complex of buildings; the main one has a helicopter pad and radar on the roof. Inside are the seemingly infinite halls of the doomed.

Those in charge have introduced works of art to liven the halls up: photos on the walls; prominent sculptures; three large glass cases with a rotating exhibition of local paintings. An indoor fountain forms the main attraction, with a collection of thin laminar flows coming down from a height of several stories into a round pool. On the edge of this fountain pool sit some of the afflicted. One woman has her wet, red face half bent over into her hands. She trembles and sobs relentlessly. But it is not all misery: an overweight mother leans over her pram and makes silly, happy noises for the benefit of her baby, who has a bulging forehead twice as big as his face. A man walks past with a nose the size of a turnip, black at the tip. He must see the thing constantly before his eyes--there is no escape. It could be worse: another man, younger, very thin, has no nose, just a horrifying hole in his face. He’s wearing a faded t-shirt. On the front, printed in huge letters, one word per line, it says:
“DIE
YUPPIE
SCUM!”

I hear the distant sound of someone groaning in pain.

Flee from these halls into the open and you will find a different group--those on walkers and wheelchairs who come out here to the entrance area to smoke. Several of those in wheelchairs are missing a leg, some miss both. They all stare out blankly into the square in front of them, exhaled smoke shrouding their shrivelled grey faces.

I try to ignore it all, since it has nothing to do with me, being healthy and one of several thousand employees at this hospital. But all the time I think: when will my turn be?