Falling for home

         “I’m giving you ten seconds. Then I swear I’ll kick the door in!”

         The officer’s muffled voice came through the hotel door. The staff had called the police after they saw the gun. They must have thought I was a terrorist. They didn’t know what I intended to do with the gun. I pulled the Glock 36 from my waistband and racked the slide back. I heard the bullet slip into the chamber, and smiled. I looked out the the balcony door at the Miami skyline. It was time to go.

         The flimsy hollow-core door burst inward, and a swat-team rushed in, weapons drawn. I backed towards the balcony, my hands in the air, the pistol hanging limp from my index finger.

         “Drop the gun, now! Move!”

         I let the Glock fall to the floor, and continued backing up. I hit the rail of the balcony, and stopped. I looked behind me and saw the long drop to the street below. It wasn’t the way that I had intended, but it would get me there.

         I raised my eyes and met the gaze of the leader of the swat-team. He saw my intention in my eyes and leaped forward, but it was already too late. I flipped backwards over the rail and fell, my arms flinging wide like a bird in the sky. The wind streamed past my face, and I looked down toward the ground rushing up to meet me. I was going home.