The snow pressed against the windows, smothering the whole canteen. The sharp glare of the artificial lights made the white tables almost green.
It had just turned noon yet it felt like the dead of night. It was hardly a usual mid-March afternoon.
John scooped up the last bit of his soup, scraping the bottom of the metal bowl, the dull scratch inaudible to his numb ears.
A grey haze filled his mind, punctured occasionally by echoes of that morning’s patient screaming before they had fainted, Nurse Carlisle’s droning admonitions,
and the thought of nothing but his dank apartment waiting for him at the end of the day.
Pretty much a normal lunch break, then.
John ran his fingers through his overlong brown hair and remembered he had booked an appointment tomorrow for a haircut.
It would be Saturday, he realised; he hadn’t noticed the week passing by in a blur, but the thought of a break, however fleeting, lifted his mood suddenly.
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