My head is ticking like a time bomb. I rub the back of my hand with my cold sweaty palm. Silently whimpering, in pain, for my mom, I kindly ask her to bring a canola oil embalm.
As I rub the embalm at the time bomb, I can hear a gentle soft psalm. My life fades away as if it were nothing more than a sitcom. I perceive my conscious escaping me, but I surprisingly feel calm.