Run

9.15 Wednesday night.

I walk.

One foot and then the next, just like everyday people. Feet on the ground just like everyday people.

My folks think I'm going to Jessie's house. The people around me probably don't care.

Everyday people. Everyday lives. It's the thing I rely on. The perfect disguise.

Through the quaint of Glebe, to the modern of Ultimo, then down along the overpass to Chinatown.

This is where it starts to get interesting.

I stand on the overpass, heart pounding. Force myself to breathe. Force the world to slow down around me.

~ breathe in ~ to the here ~ breathe out ~ to the now ~ breathe in ~ right here ~ breathe out ~ right now.

This is happening.

I'm aware of everything that's going on around me. Almost like I can see 360.The cars crisscrossing on the road behind me, the flashing LEDs of a cyclist on the ramp, the straggling family hauling their shopping bags, slowly coming up to my right.

And the train.

The monorail stopped at the station in front of me, headlight shining down its single track, ready to glide on its Eighties way forward directly underneath me.

It's like clockwork choreography, and it's the bit I love the best.

None of these people know their parts, but I'm bringing them together in a film they'll never see.

The train starts to move as the bike rolls past me, accelerates smoothly as the family troops past. The mother grips tiny hands, the father eyes me off for threat, dismisses me with a glance – just some kid watching the trains. Perfect.

Underneath us all, an electric whine as the carriages shunt past. I look again at my destination. Convention Centre station.

400 metres between here and there. A stretching line of suspended steel poised above the streets.

There's a turnstile at the station I'm looking forward to jumping, an attendant to scare the living crap from.

But now. It's time.

I flip my hood, one last breath. I vault the rail, heels steady on the ledge.

Then drop.