In the wee hours of the morning, a man stood upon the barricade of a flyover looking down at the hard concrete road fifteen feet below. He estimated that the fall would take about three seconds, the death would take much longer and would be excruciatingly painful.
He leaped. His weight caused him to shift posture mid-air such that his bottom would strike the ground first, the impact shattering his pelvis and along with it, his spine into a thousand little irreparable pieces. Before he would feel the impact, his head would strike the ground, cracking open in unimaginable ways and damaging his brain to the point where, even if he got rushed to the hospital on time, he would remain at best a vegetable for the rest of his life. He wondered how his wife would react when the police gave her the news. What would the children do? Would the office staff mourn his loss? Would his volleyball buddies pool money and buy a wreath? He wondered how it was possible that he was still thinking. Shouldn’t he be dying already, if not dead? He opened his eyes and found himself lying beneath a clear blue sky. The sun was climbing and he was lying in a pool of his own sweat, stinking of vomit and the previous night’s booze. There was light traffic on the road and the vehicles zipped around him avoiding him as if he were a bloody pig lying lifeless in the middle of the road. “Bloody pig lying lifeless in the middle of the road,” yelled a voice and he felt someone tap, not too gently, at his arms and legs with a baton.
The cop’s face held an expression of anger and disgust.
“Couldn’t you find anywhere else to die, you drunken bastard?” he shouted, hitting him harder, now that he was starting to come to his senses.
The man struggled to his feet, his mind still addled, his body not yet under his control. He swayed and fell against the cop. “Get off me you piece of filth,” hissed the policeman, shoving him away. The man staggered unsteadily, backing up against the railing of the bridge. He teetered, lost his balance and went over the edge, head first. As he lay dying in a pool of blood, he realized that he had been right. The fall had not taken more than 3 seconds.
He leaped. His weight caused him to shift posture mid-air such that his bottom would strike the ground first, the impact shattering his pelvis and along with it, his spine into a thousand little irreparable pieces. Before he would feel the impact, his head would strike the ground, cracking open in unimaginable ways and damaging his brain to the point where, even if he got rushed to the hospital on time, he would remain at best a vegetable for the rest of his life. He wondered how his wife would react when the police gave her the news. What would the children do? Would the office staff mourn his loss? Would his volleyball buddies pool money and buy a wreath? He wondered how it was possible that he was still thinking. Shouldn’t he be dying already, if not dead? He opened his eyes and found himself lying beneath a clear blue sky. The sun was climbing and he was lying in a pool of his own sweat, stinking of vomit and the previous night’s booze. There was light traffic on the road and the vehicles zipped around him avoiding him as if he were a bloody pig lying lifeless in the middle of the road. “Bloody pig lying lifeless in the middle of the road,” yelled a voice and he felt someone tap, not too gently, at his arms and legs with a baton.
The cop’s face held an expression of anger and disgust.
“Couldn’t you find anywhere else to die, you drunken bastard?” he shouted, hitting him harder, now that he was starting to come to his senses.
The man struggled to his feet, his mind still addled, his body not yet under his control. He swayed and fell against the cop. “Get off me you piece of filth,” hissed the policeman, shoving him away. The man staggered unsteadily, backing up against the railing of the bridge. He teetered, lost his balance and went over the edge, head first. As he lay dying in a pool of blood, he realized that he had been right. The fall had not taken more than 3 seconds.
