Not far from the patient, a hunched 73-year-old man moved slowly toward the woman. Despite his age, he stood tall—178 centimeters—but his stooped posture and trembling hands revealed a lifetime of burdens.
“Why don’t you laugh?” the old man asked, his voice thick with confusion and a hint of frustration. “You always come every morning, wearing white clothes.”
The woman remained seated, her eyes fixed on the floor. When he asked again, louder this time, “Why don’t you laugh?” she stood abruptly, careful not to disturb the chair she had been sitting in. Her movements were deliberate but hesitant. The nurse, observing from a distance in her light purple uniform, signaled silently to the nearby guards dressed in black.
“Why aren’t you laughing?” the old man demanded for the third time, extending his trembling hand and pointing with his index finger toward the patient, who lay still, lost in hallucinations.
The tension in the room thickened as a guard stepped forward, gently guiding the old man to calm him down. The man’s questions echoed the silent confusion felt by everyone trapped within these hospital walls—a question without an easy answer.
The woman, her shoulders heavy with unseen weight, quietly left the room, her head bowed low. The nurse’s watchful eyes followed her, as the guards stood alert nearby, ready to intervene if necessary.
In this place where smiles are rare and laughter is fragile, the old man’s persistent questions lingered in the air like a haunting echo—“Why don’t you laugh?” A question that exposed the fragile line between hope and despair inside the mental hospital.
Visiting hours ended.
#MentalHealth
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