Date: [The date has been crossed out with ink]

Entry #83

I do not believe I am working at a true hospital anymore. So many whispers, so many secrets, so many people lost, I no longer believe this place was ever meant for saving people's lives.

I fear it only makes them worse.

I can no longer trust Dr. [The name has been crossed out]. The number of syringes seemed to double for each patient, and I can't recognize the medications written in the notes. There's no way they'd be new prescriptions, I would've been told so, and all Google searches go blank. Not to mention the color of them, I doubt I could put into words how unnatural they appear.

On my lunch break, I checked in on my latest patient. Still won't disclose their name, even if this hospital just isn't right. They hadn't woken up from their recent surgery, so I came in to check if they were alright physically at least.

Someone had forgotten to put in an IV.

I can still feel the lack of their heartbeat, even now, with a pen in my hand.

I won't be going back. Not now, not ever. I emailed my notice and plan to spend the rest of my vacation days trying to forget that place ever existed.

I don't think I can keep this diary with me anymore. It reminds me too much of that place. Whether to burn it or give it away, I don't know. But maybe it would be better to give it to someone. So that no one else will end up lost in those sterilized halls.

Signing off for the last time, [The name is covered in a blood splatter.]