The sirens fade in the distance. We’re moving too fast. I can’t make it stop. The truck hurls down the road, taking a life of its own. The steering wheel is slick, a grotesque pink like human flesh. My toes burn. Caustic acid burns through my shoes. I didn’t ask for this. All I wanted was those paintings, my escape from poverty. “Stop! Stop!” My pleas become chants. Blue veins protrude from the dashboard, attaching to the burns on my skin. Blood courses through my body to the vehicle, pumping its engine. I’m dizzy. I collapse. I’m no more.
Catherine Chea 