The moonlight glinted off of the grass, the moon bathing the trees and the ground all in a white-ish glow. It was quiet in the forest at the moment, barely any noise sneaking about. The temperature was moderate, not cold nor hot, just a nice temperature, with a breeze coming through. The breeze hit Peter's face and he breathed in the air deeply. The air was so fresh out here. His eyes were closed at the moment, he wanted to see the forest, but he didn't want to see what was in front of him. The world as he knew it would soon be gone, and he didn't want to miss it too much. So the moonlight shone down on the world, seeming to protect it from harm, and there was not a noise-making animal in sight, all there were were bushes and trees and other greenery. There were also a group of men, but Peter tried to ignore the thought of the men in front of him. He tried to ignore the fact that the only reason his wrists were comfortable at the moment were because they were right next to each other, not pressing the boundaries of the very tight ropes around them, which allowed little space, and he tried to ignore the fact that he was on his knees not because he was praying or swallowing in the beauty of the world but because he'd been told to get down on his knees. He tried to ignore the fact that any moment know he might feel a heavy foot to the chest and then he would be tumbling down and down and down and down, because since there was no point in being a pessimist, in Peters last minutes he'd be an optimist.

Peter grimaced, feeling cold steel against his head. Cold steel. Everybody used that word so often to describe the feeling of a gun. Well, in this case they were right. It was cold. It sent a ray of chills through Peter, and not just because of its temperature. But honestly, all feelings of chills aside, it felt like they'd stuck the gun in a freezer.

"Can't you just kick me down?" he asked.

There was a silence. No one had been expecting him to speak, at least not like that. If they had been expecting him to speak, they'd been expecting him to start begging, but this whole time he'd been quiet. It felt like he was breaking the silence by talking, especially in such a calm way, like he was breaking through some imaginary barrier.

Peter felt the gun fall away from his head. Then came the boot. The boot. It was a finishing strike, a catapult to darkness, a mere ache with fatal consequences, it was the final shove, and it definitely felt like it. It didn't feel like a normal kick, it felt like what it was, the last kick. Even though Peter had been expecting it to happen, he somehow… hadn't… been expecting it to happen, and now he was falling, the air whipping his hair, the breeze in his face, never passing. He was falling, and falling and falling. It felt like when you fall off a chair, you're just waiting for the blow, clenching your eyes as tight as you can, but this time, there was some other part of his brain that wasn't concentrating on the blow, some force that knew Peter was going to die and was insisting on going through the stereotypical flash of life passing through his eyes. He wondered if this was what it was like to free-fall. He'd never gone parachuting, never gone diving off cliffs. Now he was finally falling off a cliff, falling into water, but he knew the water wasn't a pool, it was a painful wet concrete awaiting him. What was there to do now? It was a long drop. There wasn't really any way out of this, no way to reach out, grab a rock, and save himself. No, there was no escape, he was definitely heading towards the concrete water below. Now was just time to think, he supposed, time to relax and fall, and fall. He wondered what the mob group was doing. They were probably getting in their car, driving away to their homes to pet their dogs and eat dinner with their family. He grinned. Probably pasta.

His eyes were still closed.. What had been the last thing he'd seen? The last thing he'd seen was the cliff were they were going to kick him off of. Then he'd closed his eyes. He'd barely even seen his killers faces. Who was going to catch them? Probably no one, they were the mob it seemed, no one would stick them in jail for too long, if they made sure to watch their taxes. Peter chuckled out loud. It felt odd, like the words were a bubble, like in a comic strip, and they just shot out of his mouth and floated up in the air as Peter plummeted. Plummeted. 'Plummeted.' It sounded like an asteroid going towards the planet Earth. 'The asteroid plummeted down towards Earth.' 'Plummeted down.' As opposed to plummeting up. Peter chuckled again, once again feeling the laughter shoot out of his mouth like a bullet. Everything was like a bullet. Peter was falling like a bullet, his words were shooting out of him like a bullet, and he was meeting death like a bullet meets darkness inside a man's body.

He hadn't written a memoir. The thought suddenly broke into his mind, shaking him from his thoughts of falling and bullets. He hadn't even written a journal. There was nothing the police could use to help the investigation, nothing. All they'd have was a battered, bloated body floating up on some shore somewhere amongst all the beer cans and newspapers. If they didn't find him quick enough it'd be hard to identify him, he'd be too battered up and bloated to identify. He had nobody living with him, he lived in an apartment building. The only person who might report him missing is his boss or coworkers, except he had no exact boss or coworker, he was a freelance journalist, and was in between jobs right now. Maybe the landlord would report him missing, or his neighbor. He'd just be another unidentified floater. He wondered, wondering being his main hobby at the moment, not to mention his only possible hobby, whether or not anyone was thinking about the fact that there was a man falling down towards a river, pushed off a cliff. They were probably just at home, eating their dinner or sleeping, but maybe one of them was reading a book, and in that book someone was falling off a cliff, and now they were wondering whether or not a person was falling off a cliff in real life. There were probably other people falling off of cliffs right now, too. Probably calm ones, probably hysterical ones, probably screaming ones. He was just another guy falling off a cliff among hundreds. Maybe one person who was falling off a cliff's name was Fernando. Or Rutherford. How many people were named Rutherford nowadays? It was an uncommon name. Peter, however, now that… That was a common name. He was probably also a common mob victim, some journalist who'd taken pictures and people had noticed. So now he was plummeting down. Down and down and down and down and down. Down and down and down, to the river, not to drown, but down and down and down to… To… Sometimes it took Peter a while to come up with a rhyme. Oh, well, it wasn't like he could publish any of the poems he was coming up with right now.

He felt something hit his back.

Oh, well, at least nobody would miss him.