A Pessimist's Fiction

Falling

The black sky swirled around me, stars circling my head, my body, my soul. I relaxed and felt the wind, hard against my back. The tower from which my plummet originated grew smaller in the distance as time slowed. At last I felt free. I felt the adrenaline coursing through my body.

I didn't feel the crash or hear the water engulf me, but I felt the warm arms of death. My angel of death pulled me tightly into his welcoming embrace. Cool water invaded my lungs and the clouds filled my head. I lost my vision and my hearing. I couldn't hear my surroundings but I could hear the angel singing to me. Calling me to the darkness, pulling me closer to the cold nothingness.

I fought for breathe. I broke surface and expelled the water from my lungs. I greedily took in as much air as possible as I kept my head above the waves. I looked around the open water that surrounded me. I survived. But no one was here, no one welcomed me back. No loving arms greeted me. No search lights yearned to find my pale being. No, nothing was there to make me believe I should be there.

I slowly drifted back to shore and laid myself on the sand. I stayed there. Waiting, wishing, hoping. After an hour of lying on the beach, I finally rose and returned to my truck at the top the cliff where the tower was located. I pulled out the knife I kept hidden under my seat and went to the cliff edge. I sat down and gazed at the vast ocean before me. I was to become one with the ocean. I was going to spend eternity at rest with the water. I held the knife against my abdomen and edged farther off the cliff. I plunged the knife into my stomach and threw myself back over the edge. This time, never to return.