So I flung myself from a building; eyes closed and my heart budding with hopes of a quick death. In my seventeen years of living I'd never felt a rush of adrenaline so endearing. I could've taken a less painful, less dramatic way out. I lived alone, with the exception of my mother's silhouette which only appeared when the sun set. I doubt she'd mind if I passed away. The closest we had ever been was the period of nine months after her failed abortion. However, the mediocrity of pills and the bathtub drowning drill were never very appealing.
So I decided to go out with a bang, I wanted my death to have the impact of a stray bullet through the hearts of those whose faiths had been unfortunate enough to cross my own. The fact that I'd seen it in so many movies however, could also have been a contributing factor to my choice of ending. The terror as passers by watched me fall to my inevitable finale, the shrieks that would accumulate a dense cloud of panic in the air, the pedestrians and drivers who would skitter away so I didn't end up failing near them, jaws dropping, breaths halting, lights, camera, action, sympathy rolling.
And the most daring of tabloids would have my picture on the front page. The white suit I rented specifically for this grand event exquisitely decorated with, blood, brains and hopefully my eyes on either sides of my head in the most artistic of ways. People would write about me for a good span of nine days, my family and life up until my stealthy exit would get exposed along with the horrible deeds I carried out while living. I'd be a nine day superstar in this rat infested excuse of a city.
But there was really no telling what would happen after I hit the pavement and that only increased the high, the high I'd often get off the unexpected. So I welcomed my abrupt ending with euphoria seeping from my skin in beads of sweat. With an exceptional grin on my face and my bright red bow tie straightened, I crashed with triumph, head first into the pavement. Success!
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