They don’t want the air pressure to kill me, I think. That’s why they’re just putting a shitload of ceiling fans up to simulate wind, instead of actually dangling me out of an airplane.
How kind of them.
I can hear the engine thumping. The whir of the blades cut through my spine, and I can feel the hairs all over my body stand up. I swallow thickly but there’s nothing there, my throat dry but tasting of blood.
I love flying. Ziplines. Anything that gets me up in the air for those precious few moments, free as a bird or a bee or anything else with wings that can move without assistance. Where gravity is a suggestion instead of a law. It’s where I belong, and it’s where I’m going to die.
My arms are bound, and my eyes blindfolded with a cloth that smells like bleach. I would gag but I already am. Gagged, that is.
For some reason that’s funny.
It happens quickly. The engine’s powerful thrum vibrates into my very core, my soul twinging like the deep wail of a plucked cello string.
Then, my hair flies back and so does my head, and there’s a minute of earth-shattering pain and the loudest crack I’ve ever heard in my life- even louder than the fans and the blades of the turbine that spin on, oblivious to me- before everything drips and drops the curtain from gushing red to shimmering pitch. Not black- black is the inside of eyelids, the sensation of at least waking up before you see the yellow of lights. No, it’s white, nothing but the purest yet sickliest white.
White is the color of nothing at all.