the fall of Lance Manville
When I was younger the idea of me dying seemed absurd. Ridiculous. Death was something that happened to other people. Really only to give context to my permanence. Clearly the reality I existed in would allow me, and all the versions of me that I could imagine, a staggering number to be sure, to continue on endlessly.
Recently, as I’ve begun to age, poorly at that, it occurred to me that I too might expire. In the same ignominious fashion as so many of my peers have departed.
Which I find quite troublesome.
A world without me?
But if I must, I ask to depart via a means of my choosing. Much like Goldilocks, I do not wish it to be too quick, nor too drawn out. And, if I’m being completely honest with myself, that sounds nothing like Goldilocks.
Had she had such weighty matters on her mind I doubt very much she would have been engaging in such breaking and entering hijinks in the first place. The porridge would definitely have gone untouched.
After some careless consideration, I believe I would prefer to shuffle off this mortal coil by not having my chute open, jumping from a dizzying height. Like the footage I’ve seen from someone falling off a platform brought up by some sort of hot air space balloon, where the stepper-offer can clearly see the curve of the Earth much clearer than he or she can see the ground.
I believe oxygen is required.
A couple tugs on the chord and it immediately becomes apparent that the landing is going to be problematic. The point being driven home nicely when the chord comes off in my hand. It goes without saying that I’m assuming that I will deal with the news of a faulty parachute with great aplomb.
And not how I would actually deal with. People from surrounding counties all looking skyward, wondering where the sound of the crying little girl is coming from.
No, this fall to earth would be a few minutes for me to collect my thoughts and reflect back on a life well-lived. A time to sort through some of my fondest memories and accept my fate. The fate that awaits everyone. With an almost detached appreciation for human mortality.
I know how my mind works even when I’m not plunging to an imminent death. Throw in a few thousand feet worth of adrenaline and who knows what images would be flitting past my eyes (I know most people say that these images flash, but I’m pretty sure mine would flit). I would be trying for the girl I took to prom and instead I’d get the prostitute who propositioned me at the carwash when I was nineteen. Standing there all sudsy.
Plummeting to the ground wondering why I turned her down. She was quite cute and her rate was reasonable.
So why did I not take her up on it? What it fear of it being a police sting? Fear of disease? Fear of women?
See? Right there that was a couple thousand feet of falling.
Throw in a few more thousand while I curse myself for squandering precious time on such a random memory and I’d be more than half way down.
What was the girl’s name that I took to prom? My first love. The girl who I first explored concepts of romance and commitment with.
I got nothing.
The prostitute told me her name was Amber. Do prostitutes use their real names?
They say the ground rushes up to you near the end. Like it can’t wait to move things along.
… thud/slight splat.
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