text: *“Huh? Oh, here.”* *“First time flyer?”* *“Last time flyer.”* I quickly entered the tunnel leading to the plane, ignoring the suspicious glance the attendee threw my way whilst scanning my boarding pass. *‘Last time flyer’*, I thought, chuckling underneath my breath. I had never considered myself quick witted, but I guess even during one’s final hours on this planet, they can learn something new about themselves. As I stepped on board, I could feel the shift in tension around me. Although no one was particularly talkative whilst boarding the plane, it didn’t really feel out of the ordinary until now. After all, a 5 am flight on a Tuesday in the middle of October is not usually bustling with big families visiting relatives, or young couples looking for a thrill. Those already seated were silent. Some had closed their eyes, others seemed to be analyzing the faces around them; taking in the last piece of humanity they would likely ever see. A small woman to my left caught my gaze. Her hair was fire and the glare in her eyes told the story of what led her here. A life in shambles, a messy divorce, lost custody, an abusive boss. Do my eyes tell my story? Or does my body wreak of a life spent alone? Carefully, I place my carry-on in the luggage holder above. If someone opened it, they would find nothing; they would see nothing. A quick unzip to check on its contents reminds me, however, that it is not empty. It is filled with love unreciprocated, time lost, and a future thrown away. Invisible memories leak through its seems, filling the air with a stench of rejection and neglect. I gag. A flight attendant quickly reaches to hand me a paper bag, but I fan her away. Even if I wanted to throw up, I had not eaten for the past two days, so I doubt much, if anything, would come out. I sit down next to a young man who appears eager to have company. Shyly, he smiles at me. *“They say that everyone dies alone, but here, we will go together.”* I look into his eyes. He does not seem like the type to choose this path. He seems hopeful, content, energetic. He radiates the energy I have always envied and craved to possess. I bring my hand up to his face and brush his cheek. *“I guess beautiful people are just as unhappy as the rest of us.”* Breaking eye contact, he turns his face away from hand and rolls up his sleeves. We both look down. *“I guess so.”* His scars tell stories I do not want to hear. Perhaps if we had met a year ago, we could have both avoided this fate. A year ago, I could have saved him, and saving him would have saved me. We could have lived a life together. But instead, we will die together. As the last passengers take their seats, the flight attendants line up and exit the plane. I can see tears falling from the lady that tried to give me a paper bag. Her muffled sobs remind us all of the magnitude of our actions. Later today, the news will run rampant with a story about how 97 people lost their lives in a devastating plane crash that left no survivors. Families will mourn, strangers will switch the channel, life will continue. For everyone but us, that is. Without any warning or announcement, the plane begins to roll down the runway. I assume in a time like this, the comforting words of a pilot are useless. The only thing we want, is to reach our final destination. As I take a deep breath, the man beside me turns his body to face mine. Slowly, he reaches over and takes my hand. His palms are soft and his hands feel like home. *“Do you know where you’re going?”* he asks me softly. *“I imagine heaven is off the table, but a guy can dream.”* Squeezing my hand, he pauses briefly as the plane begins to rise. His demeanor is no longer that of a youthful carefree boy. Brows furled, he looks at me for what feels like an eternity. I wait. *“Isn’t it ironic? The thought of being punished by choosing death, a path chosen because of the way life has already punished us?”* I sigh and tell him that I find it amusing how he is contemplating this now. I started asking that question when I was twelve, and I still haven’t heard an adequate response. He asks why. I think it's because, as a people, we are so uncomfortable with the unknown. We are scared of death because -- all faith aside -- we simply do not know. In an age where you can find out anything with a quick Google search, there is no confusion why this generation’s capacity to discuss questions you must answer for yourself is so small. Looking over, I could tell he was considering my point of view. I appreciated that the last man I would speak to would not be like all the others that have trodden on the doormat into my home. *“Tell me your story,”* he said. What can I say? There isn’t much to tell. I’m tired. Of what, you ask? I’m tired of living a static existence. I work often, socialize rarely, and feel alone always. Maybe it was just a rut, maybe there was a better way out, but I’m too tired to look for it. By now, I could tell he wasn’t happy with my response. I felt he knew that ‘I’m tired’ was just a copout to hide the real reason I boarded this flight. A tired person would not go through all of this effort to end their life. His hands fidgeted, and I could sense him pulling away from the conversation. *“I just want to be free.”* I mumbled, hoping this would draw him in enough to keep me company for a little while longer. Turning his head to gaze out the window, he said one final thing to me. The last sentence I’d hear from him for the rest of the flight. *“There are other things that lead to freedom.”* As the flight wears on, I grow tired. Before I can nod off, we are all started by a jerk in the plane’s motion. It must be time. I can see the red haired woman from earlier begin to panic. There is no escape. We begin to descend at a rapid pace. Falling faster and faster. Falling. Falling Falling. My eyes open as snow falls around me. I must have fallen asleep. Shivering from the brutal wind, I get up and look at the winter night that had grown more intense as I slept. Remembering why I was here, I walk closer to the edge of the roof and look down into the empty street below. As I place one arm on the ledge to hoist myself up, my mouth opens and something within me whispers. *“There are other things that lead to freedom.”* I stop. My phone buzzes in my pocket. Taking it out, I see that it’s 2:04 am. My roommate is calling. I answer. *“Hello?”* *“Where are you? You seemed off today, and when I got back and you weren’t here, I got worried. Why aren’t you in your room?”* Quickly, I back away from the ledge. I’m not sure what to say. Perhaps for once, I’ll try the truth. *“I went out for a walk to think about things. Things I’ve been considering for a while. All this time, I wanted to be free, and tonight I was going to make that happen. But after lying in the snow, I realized something. Choosing death doesn’t make you free, it just makes you dead.