They say it’s not the fall that kills you, but the landing.

Personally, I think the fall helps.

That’s based on my experience, though, which—given it wasn’t a very tall building—was poised to be a short one. I flipped and flailed, trying to scream but managing only a dry cough. My heart stuck in my throat.

There’s a chance I vomited mid-air. A fact that, if possible, I’d prefer to be left out of my obituary. Skin rippling and wind rushing past my ears faster than wind has any right to, I closed my burning eyes and waited for the impact. Surely it wouldn’t be long.

I wished I’d lived more. Gone out and taken more risks, maybe actually experienced what a family was supposed to be like. My childhood had been spent trying to escape an abusive father and a mother who tuned it out with drugs. When I’d finally left for university, I’d jumped for joy, but those days had been wasted in front of a computer.

Then, I’d taken the first job I could, terrified to go back. With no parents to run from, I’d tried escaping reality instead. I’d worked in the same five storey building for three years, doing the same job with the same people and the same lousy bosses, my only escape from mundanity being my lunch hour on the roof.

I’d answer phones, organise schedules, and try not to get caught reading web novels and daydreaming of transmigration.

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When I went home, I’d play video games. Exciting, right?

Just another day in the life of Oliver Marsden, no different from any of the rest. Boring. Predictable.

Excruciating.

Except the agony I was about to face was different. It had changed. This change, though, was unwelcome, like when a snack company switches the ingredients and you find yourself chugging bleach to wash the taste away.

All my life, I’d wished for a miracle.

Some fucking miracle.

Moral of the story, kids: if the railing creaks, don’t lean on it.

The wind stopped assaulting me, and my hearing returned. All around, people muttered and gasped—denizens of the afterlife, probably, wondering what happened for me to look like an overcooked pancake.

Still, it had been relatively painless. I hadn’t even realised. A soft breeze caressed my skin and the tension left my body. Time to find out what lay beyond the veil.

“Here, that guy’s floating! Someone start filming, quick!”

Wait, what?

My eyes snapped open, revealing I was still destined for a meeting with the pavement. A crowd had gathered, gawking at me like a dog had stood on its hind legs and started reciting King Lear in perfect iambic pentameter.

Looking down, I discovered I was, indeed, floating.

What the fuck?

Before I could question further, a light flashed, and I was somewhere else.