Jumpers.

8:46 AM, September 11, 2001, Manhattan, New York City.

All is well,

A fresh, new work day.

But it didn't end that way.

For those who worked by the windows,

You might look up and see death flying towards you.

Or, for those who didn't have a view,

They sat clueless.

The plane came at rapid speed,

Crashing into the North Tower.

Fire trucks, police, paramedics, news crews,

All fled to the scene.

But it hit once again, in the South Tower.

Smoke everywhere.

You can't breath.

You see people jumping out of windows a thousand feet from the ground.

You don't know what to do.

You can't see.

Noise is everywhere.

Crashing and burning, severe heat and screaming.

You try to find an exit,

But there is none.

You see the South Tower collapse,

And you realize your fate.

You stumble toward the window,

Looking down into the street.

You see the bloody mess of body parts strewn across the sidewalk.

You inhale,

Lungs searching for fresh air.

You take a step off the edge,

You fall.

Twisting and turning.

It seems in slow motion.

You don't scream.

You don't close your eyes.

You're in a dream.

A wonderful, falling dream.

But you always have to wake up.

Broken bones, blood, and gore.

As death comes to lead you away,

With everyone else.