Freefall

“It’s simply politics,” the slim man says, his arm outstretched, the other one wrapped around a safety bar. At least, that’s what the man hears as he stumbles backwards, out the open bay doors, into the shimmering sky beneath him. As the plane rushes forwards impossibly fast, the man is made aware of his dire situation, and all that he is leaving behind. A wife. A son. A mother and a father. Everybody that he loves and everybody that loved him, at some point or another. Would they feel the impact? As the life sapped from his body, would they feel it, too? Would they know, in their gut, that something was wrong? Would they feel anything?
A wife. Her beautiful, flowing hair perfectly framing her gorgeous face. The image sustained in his mind as the wind rushed through his hair. She had made his life worth living; she had saved him. A street-bound drug addict, a shadow of his former self. She threw a dime at him. She told him to get a job. From then on he knew she was the one. He never admitted to her, but for six months he stalked her. She was the reason he went to rehab. She was the reason he saw value in life. His last words to her were the same ones they always parted with: “I love you”.
A son. His little bundle of joy. The years had passed so quickly, the 17 year old brute now going through the rebellion stage. A typical teenager, kept to himself, his headphones practically a vital organ. The man never found out what happened behind closed doors; between fights the two never had properly made up. How that beautiful young boy, playing in the mud and running around the backyard had ever grown up, the man didn’t know. His last words to his son came after another trivial fight: “I don’t want to see your face until tomorrow, don’t even think about sneaking out again, young man.” That was yesterday, right before the call…
A mother and a father. The two people that had loved him unconditionally for his whole life, through every phase he endured. They had raised him, fed him, given him a reason to live. Even took him in during his addiction. They had sacrificed so much for every mistake he made, yet still did all they could for him. His last words to them had come after a late night phone call, three days before the call: “I will see you soon”.
As he plummeted to the unforgiving Earth below, a tear forming in his eye, he scolded himself for answering that call. Scolded himself for being so gullible. Scolded himself for leaving his family behind. The danger should have been obvious to him; too many people wanted him dead. The slim man had been very friendly, right up until they pulled up to the private runway. He was promptly chloroformed, gagged, bound, and thrown into the cargo bay of a small aircraft. That brought him to this point.
He could see the ground now, its features becoming sharper by the second. He could make out black squares, then roofs, then shingles, then a lawn, and finally, a single blade of grass. He went head first, and was spared the majority of the pain. The physical pain, at least.