Alarms blare as the room erupts in activity. Workers swarm, desperate to save a life.

Compressions begin. The chest cracks. Resuscitation carries a price.

The bag is squeezed, forcing volume through the tube in her throat. A slight disconnect sprays red mist into the air, droplets suspended beneath the sterile, bright light.

Its warmth is uncomfortable on my skin.

A nurse wipes the blood flowing from her nostrils, smearing it across her cheek. Hope fades quickly.

Her eyes begin to gloss, fixating on the ceiling. She is slipping away. Death waits nearby, signaling the end.

Her mother starts begging and pleading, half collapsing to the floor.

Miracles seem reserved for a select few. Working in intensive care has made this painfully clear.

She will die in this cold hospital room, surrounded by strangers just trying to earn a living.

Born with a disease that corrupted her genes, causing mass hemorrhaging.

At least her parent is near. At least she has that much.

So many patients wither away with no one around. They expire clutching some cheap stuffed animal the hospital provides, alone in a bed with no family or friends.

How often I have stood watching as labored breathing slows, then stops. Color drains, replaced by the pale face of mortality.

A reminder of what comes for us all.

After multiple rounds, the doctor stops, confirms the time, says he is sorry, and leaves.

We all follow, ushered out by the sobs and wails of a mother who has just lost her daughter, her little angel.

Twenty-three years ended.

Soon, the body is placed in the morgue, and the room is prepped and cleaned. Another admit needs the bed.

The memory of the code fades, but I cannot forget.

No, I am cursed to remember.

This world is cruel. It is unforgiving, or so it seems. There is beauty here, but it is difficult to see in moments like these.