Here's bringing you another personal anecdote of the phantasms of a life of sanguinity. Yesterday, after completing some work till 2a.m., I plunged into utter disbelief upon reading my organiser(which I use everytime I try to fit things into my bag and realise something left forgotten is in the way). It was an undeniable fact starring right back into my pupils. Chem SPA in merely another 10 hours away. The stars outside my window winked. I dismissed my flurry of anxiety with the notion of the ease of the task, to crash right into bed in what seemed like a knock on the head, which was over as soon as the start of the fleeting moments of blankness.

I got up to sink into the after effects of the collision, which persisted as a mild 'hangover', and the dread for IT. After a short session of morning training followed by an amateur tennis game, it was back to boring PW and Maths Tutorial. Then came the time. We marched towards the Chem Lab in a funeral-like procession as the sun illuminated our blank countenances. There were quiet murmurings. No more excitable chatter. I stomped to my seat and proceeded with washing the apparatus with an apparent lack of zeal.

Start in ten seconds! And they were off! It was a 100m sprint event towards the weighing balance. I stayed in the spectator stands filling up my burette. After the usual weighing and dissolving, it was time to pipette and titrate the solution. Though it took exceptionally long, with a stroke of 'serendipity', I managed to get and demonstrate an accurate end-point drop and colour. Reading was 37.9. A bit far off from normal values. But no point thinking too much into it. The next one was effortless. I'll just let the titrant run all the way to 37.5 and meticulously add the magic drops to success. To my horror the solution turned into a murky conglomeration of blood, carnage and froth that was far from orange. I broke in bouts of frantic growls. With my shaking hands, I pipetted the solution again. Almost at end-point now...any moment...and alas! A twitch of my sweaty fingers, and the solution gushed out like a punctured artery! It was somewhere near 25.0. Almost 10 cm apart.

Another attempt, fast!!! In a berserk, I lumbered to the front of the lab to collect more solution. The shivering limbs struggled to pipette the solution with precision, but air bubbles just kept getting in the way. In my state of frenzy, an uncontrolled lunge at the pipette filler literally soaked the entire thing with the solution. Ok...relax. Just a matter of getting another one. The winking stars in the sky were nowhere to be seen. I was misinformed. It had been a conspiracy. I needed to bail! But there was no way out. Ineptly, I pipetted another sample and lunged forward to titrate. Oh damn it! What was the initial reading of the burette! Another wasted attempt!

I looked at my hands to find nothing but an icy-cold emptiness. The claws of Death! It had surreptitiously infiltrated my mind and body! With the remaining integrity of my soul, I filled the burette and repeated the pipetting procedure. I let the solution run and glanced at the clock amidst Death's derisive countdown. Argh! I gave my hair a vehement tug. My hands have betrayed me again. The solution was splashing all over the white tile! The conical flask had crept away from the perennial torture from the burette. It all seemed like a delirium. I cannot trust my hands anymore. I kept a close watch as I pinned my last reserves of hope and energy into the next attempt.

Yet, Great Mother of Venus! Yet again. A banal negligence of the initial reading! My lips turned as chalky as lime water precipitate. My time was almost up. I could feel it. Nostalgia sprawled defenseless in my mind. Flashbacks. Reminiscing the good old times of Chem Pracs way back at RI... But no. Perseverance was my only key left. I slotted it into the keyhole and yanked it down to burst into a stream of light. It was the final crusade. All my energies, my hopes, my friends, my family...I was all about that moment.

Time came to a halt. I gazed into the drop of solution rolling below the burette. There it was tethering between nothing but disdain and disparagement. I hated it. I was taut with rage. There it was with a supercilious glare. I was going to wipe that condescending leer away from its sparkling and beaming face. That moment seemed like an eternity.

Ploop. 22.0. Silence. The people below the stage stopped laughing. It was quite probably a wrong value. But my lifelines were up. I collapsed into my chair. Prostrate. All that was moving were an incompetent pair. Furiously writing away. Values. Units. Significant Figures. Calculations. It was over. I have broken away. A free man. But not unscathed. The damage was permanent. Scars. Casualties. I stared into yonder. The stage below was empty. The audiences were gone. There was a man. Just one. He extended his hand. And gently pulled my script away from me with a inaudible croak: "Show's over, son. It's time. Move along. I've gotta lock up."