6

I'm gonna die! I certainly know this, there is no doubt. I look around and see my cowardice mirrored in each man that bravely stands up and dive deep into the air. I have thirty years. I drink and smoke since I was thirteen. I always knew I would die today, at thirty years, jumping from this plane. Here am I, however, waiting for death, cowardice in the shape of calmness,

I had a normal live, not bad at all. But since my childhood I always knew there I was faded to die like this, at thirty years. I always knew, although I did nothing to avoid and even I do question myself how much had I prepared myself and applied for this to happen.

Last year, for instance, I was a normal guy. Big expensive rented apartment, more than three year long wife, a one year daughter plus a buy ready to come to this world, still inside my woman. Good job as journalist, a car, imported whiskey, cuban cigars. After a single year, I am being prosecuted by the woman who would love me forever, which, by the way, don't allow me to see my kids because she claims that I am a compulsive drunk. I dropped my job, lived some time in the street, have taken all kind of things to keep me alive, became scorch, walking trash. Marcela, the blue dressed whore who goes to the expensive pubs downtown, felt pity for me. She took me off the streets and give something to eat and where to shelter. In exchange I do some protection service, naturally, what caused me this stomach perforation last month. But she's a good woman, sometimes we even fuck, more because of her insistence than my will. I fear that she starts to love me, I, that am a walking dead.

Perhaps is this not so bad. At least there will be a person there when I die. I hope she cries.

She was the one who paid me these parachute classes. I don't know why had I decided to do it, better yet, me greatest fear is that maybe I know it. It is extremely plausible that I should not fear death, that explains this obsessive behavior in search of the death last months, all in vain. I'm not afraid of the plane, nor the instructor, nor anything. I fear, when the time arrives, not resist the pressure and decide myself not to pull the string. I fear that I, unconsciously, had folded the parachute in a way that it won't get open, leaving my body falling freely to the fllor, like a meat-rubber ball.

I know that now, all I think is start screaming and hang firmly to some seat, some door, some anything and, for nothing in the whole world, to jump. But I refuse. If this is my fate I have no right to avoid it. I must accept my death. I must jump. I must go deep for the last time.

And I am still seating, more than an hour, seeing my whole life in front my eyes, each action, each ask, each details going on, like a book of madness.