I was pretty damn sure this was what it felt like to die. My body had gone cold, my skin was clammy and all I could see what a bright white light; clearly that was death, right? Wrong. I was actually disappointed that I wasn’t getting a free pass on my current situation; I’d have much preferred almost anything else to being in my own shoes right about now.
The nausea that rolled over me made me want to throw up with my whole body; and my mind was convinced that doing so would make me feel a whole lot better. Stomach acid burned my throat, my mouth went dry and sweat trickled down my back in a long ticklish line.
My fingers twitched, tightening into a fist and then opening like a flower, over and over repeating the same restless dance. My boots felt tight and my legs bounced a staccato rhythm against the floor with the heels, tap tap tap.
I began to question my own sanity, wondering how a crazy person would know that they were crazy; they wouldn’t, would they? They would just merrily go through life under the firm belief that the sky was green, the grass was red and the birds could talk; who could convince them differently?
I rose slowly to my feet and stared even harder at the white light, convinced that I would meet my demise if I touched it, and yet I couldn’t stop myself from shuffling forward like a hypnotized zombie. Transfixed, I was able to ignore the whooshing of the wind as I stepped into the light, letting it rush and swirl around me, whipping my nerves into a raw frenzy.
Reaching up to my chest I pulled the handle I found there and a huge red parachute deployed above me, slowing my descent. I was used to this, I’d done it a million times, but I’d always had nicotine to calm my anxiety and with a deep, adrenaline saturated sigh I realized I’d picked the wrong day to quite smoking.
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