Operating Theatre Monologue

Extending one of her feet, Connie kicked opened the half-opened door. The operating theatre had an orange ethereal radiance as moonbeams invaded from the open skylight roof. Every surface was corroded with rust, even the large surgical light, a curved dish with many broken bulbs scrutinised the aged operating table. Circling her torch around the room, Connie zoomed her phone onto the furniture and then scouted the floor.

“Look, loads of Doctors or surgeons or something have left scrubs and masks here,” she said as she crouched down to film a better view of the pile of spoilt, wet clothes. “It looks like they just pulled them off and left…weird.”

She opened every cupboard to find water damaged IV bags still in their packages, warped syringes and blackened rolls of
She hoped it wasn’t too obvious, if so, she would have to edit the noise or even this segment of the footage. She always to be perceived as brave, independent and most of all, casual and cool.

The red tiled floor slunk up the walls and looked in quite good condition, much to Connie’s surprise. White marbled ivy leaves asserted the once refrigerated body store, filling it with more like than when an active morgue. Some of the doors were wide open, their shelves looked more like corrugated iron than stainless steel.

“Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.” Connie croaked as she read the black graffiti scribbled on a wall, red moss intertwined with paint. “Looks like there have been people in here before me. Explorers if you’re one of them, get in touch. I’d love to hear about your experiences.” Connie’s heart pounded as her torch greeted a discoloured dissecting bench, a large mass rested on the centre, flapping in the chill of a large broken window, or was it moving by its own accord? Silent, her unsteady feet slapped against the unforgiving tiling, echoing in the lonely