CHANNILLO

Blood Isn’t Always Thicker
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The acrid smell of death and antiseptic invades my nose as I enter the long grey hallway. The nurse who is guiding me says nothing, just walking in front of me with soft pitter-pattering of her booties on the lenmolium.

    “How is she?” The nurse ignores me. “Is she happy?”

    Still nothing from Mrs. Antisocial. I can’t tell if the hallway is getting darker, or if the atmosphere is just becoming more and more oppressive. After a few more minutes of silence the nurse stops in front of a large metal door. She opens it and steps to the side. Light and dust stream out accompanied by the smell of lilac. I walk past the mute nurse, knowing even if I asked, she wouldn’t answer.

Once I pass the threshold, she closes the door behin...

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