As I feel my body drop, I remember a similiar time twenty years ago when I was seven.

I was a disobedient kid. That very day, my mother had warned me not to climb the tree in the backyard because it was too high, and I wouldn’t be able to get down. I took that as a personal challenge. As she began preparing dinner, I snuck out the back door and made my way to the tree.

Its bark was rough, peeling easily under my fingers. There weren't many branches, so I had to rely mainly on scaling the trunk itself. I didn't mind. I set my foot on the stump, grasped a branch a foot above my head, and pulled myself up. The branch was sturdy, easily holding double my weight.

I reached for another branch and continued climbing. With each upward movement, the ground receded further away, and a thrill of joy surged through me.

I was nearly at the top. So close. One more branch and I could touch the sky.

But then something stopped me. An overwhelming urge to give up washed over me; I wouldn’t make it. This time, when I looked down, the ground was nonexistent, replaced by a gaping maw waiting to devour me.

“Let go!” the tree seemed to shout as the branches retracted into the bark.

I began to fall.

Everything moved in slow motion.

I could pretend I was flying, but I was too afraid.

My head hits the ground.

Blood trickles down my face.

It doesn’t hurt.

My mom rushed out of the house, her screams inaudible.

A crowd surrounds my body.

Sirens wail in the distance.

“It’s just a broken arm. He’ll be fine,” the EMT tells my mom. She hugs me tightly.

I can't breathe. The EMT looks into my eyes with sadness.

“You should’ve listened to me.” she whispered in my ear.

“I should’ve listened.” I whisper back.

The world stops.

The memory is over.

Everything. Is. Over.