Five More Minutes

Five more minutes. My mind spits out. Five more minutes.

It makes no sense, really. I'd always thought my last words, er, thoughts would be more profound. That I would have some type of wise jargon or eerie message that people would remember. Or talk about. Who knows? Maybe my mediocrity will follow me in death.

I can't feel my legs. Oh, God.

Somehow, this is a lot more, how do I say this? Fucking terrifying. That's what this is. No one tells you about the pain. Oh, God. The pain. Dying hurts. The survivor stories gloss over it. They focus on the regret and the fear but not the pain. Jesus. I can't feel my legs or my arms. Oh, God.

I hear screaming. Who is that? Mom? Shit.

I will my mind to push the blood back into my body. To staunch the bleeding. Hell, my panicked brain tells me to get off the floor and pretend that everything is fine. I've been doing that for 25 years. I try and open my eyes to see her.

I can't. Oh, God. She's wailing. It's getting harder to breathe.

So this is the regret they talk about. The feeling of not being able to wipe my mother's tears away and say it's okay. So this is it.

Five more minutes, I think helplessly.