I pace outside the hospital, fingers wiping over the parched, white wash walls; spreading heart and good will. My ears are attuned to the noises within the room, the begging, pleading and screaming within. I flinch as a cry shrieks aloud from within, and I turn, hands clutched together impatiently, anxious. “Sarah, please, just a little more.” The man pleads as strict looking women hustle and bustle around the screaming woman.

I stare at the tartan carpet, patterns and images swimming in unfocused eyes and an unfocused mine. The clocks tick loudly around; white and black and severe blank faces hidden behind cold, silver bars that are not unlike the small, blank windows of an asylum. “Sarah!” the man says, breathless with pain and exhilaration; the woman screams again.

I turn, fingers pushing my horn rimmed glasses over my nose, fingers slipping over my cheek, unexpectedly shaking and nervous. I don’t know why I’m suddenly uneasy; I’ve been in this same exact position thousands of times before, why is this any different?

It changes- the atmosphere, the focus, the time. Suddenly there is no more screaming, only the wail of a single entity. There are no more screams of encouragement and patience, directed at the woman- they now stop and stare, in awe and wonder. Time ticks by, quick and unfeeling, and the only one who feels it is me.

My shoulder blades twitch uncomfortably in my stiff and clinging suit, trench coat hanging open to the stifling and suffocating heat in the smothering building. I turn, knowingly, and the doors burst open mere centimetres from my face. A woman hurries out, thin soled slipper slapping the carpet, her steps rushed and hidden within the fabric. Glancing once surreptitiously over my shoulder, I trail her, rolling my shoulders and twitching in the tight constraints. I follow her through the halls, watching the white cap glare in the stark white lighting. She moves cautiously, arms shifting at the heavy bundle. People pass and do not pay the least bit of attention; they take no notice of joys or problems that eclipse their own.

She turns and I follow two steps behind, graciously reaching before and opening the door for her. She goes through emotionless and I let the door swing shut behind her, sweaty fingers sliding over the heavy wooden frame. I dig my hands into my pockets, nonchalant and shuddering, and my feet find their own path without the brain sending any messages to it. The window is not far- the woman is placing the bundle carefully down, three rows away.

I take no notice of the others beside me, and they take no notice of me, not even blinking when my palm slaps against the glass, leaving a fogged and sweaty trail behind. I stare at it; far enough to merely watch instead of touching and tracing, but this will do- it does not matter the distance for my job now.

“Hello,” I say, plaintively, voice nothing more than a whisper or a memory, “hello, your name is Gabriel. And you have quite the life ahead of you.”