(This is actually a fictional, descriptive essay. It was completed as an assignment for my college English Compostion Class. Enjoy.)
They told him that he only had twenty-four hours left to live. Doubt and anger writhed in his skull in a deadly embrace, each threatening to crush the life from the other. It was a quiet, brutal struggle that lent strength to each vicious antagonist alternately, the battle's tide rocking back and forth in tempo with the rapid pulsations of his heart. The blood pounded relentlessly in his veins, as if a crazed galleon master were at its helm, making each massive beat tangible in ringing ears and an aching chest.
His senses were intensifying, as the doctors had warned that they would, and the typically quiet machinations of his body were beginning to establish their presence quite loudly. Bleach-white and cool against his naked feet, the tile floor reflected the phosphorescent lighting tenfold.
The quarantine chamber was intended to be devoid of adornment, so as not to be overwhelming, but even the little light he had had become a false sun. A pungent odor covered every porcelain and stainless steel surface - the smell of cleaning supplies.
His heart was not the only thing that raced. Finding no solace in his white cell - "white grave", he corrected himself with a shudder - he turned his thoughts inward and backward; before things became out of hand. It was spring, he remembered. The morning was grey and heavy with the rains of the night before. A cool breeze carried the unmistakable smell of further storms through the slightly open bedroom window. The foreboding gloom that many rainy days carried was absent, replaced by a refreshing glow behind the clouds that promised a warm, sunny afternoon. Blustered by the gentle winds,