Before I hit the ground

[Rossamund]

Dear Algernon
By the time your reading this I'll almost certainly be dead.

We were heading down to the edge of the cliff, to get a better view. I went ahead, unnecessarily clinging to the deep-rooted grasses as I descended down the slope to the edge. I stepped over a small crevice and then beheld the view. The sea mist obscured the distance over the ocean thinning out over land it gave an indefinite feel as if the distance was some background which an artist hadn’t bothered to detail. The winds where strong and the waves smashing against the cliff face foamed the ocean into white water and kicked up sea spray. Strangely geometric blocks of stone lay fallen at the base of the cliffs, displaying strata lined planes. It was as if the coast was some massive stump from which they'd been carved.

The ground broke. My weight must’ve finished the carving of the stone from the trunk. Instinctively I sped up my thoughts and turned down my senses. It took a precious second for me to realise what was happening, and to cut off my senses entirely. I'm in nothing now. Not like the black of closed eyes, but more like the nothingness when you're thinking before you're awake. I knew that wasn't enough time so I overclocked my brain and diverted energy from things like cooling. I'm turning my mind into slag, but that doesn’t matter since soon I'll be smashed. I had 33 minutes and 31 seconds of subjective time left and now I have less so I'm sorry for my brevity and clumsy leaden tongue.

 Of course, I didn't know what to do, I was raving in the void. Flitting between unworkable ideas like transmitting the bulk of myself when I can scarcely transmit this letter.  And screaming without a mouth for far too long. There's nothing that can be done to save me. No improbable "mayhaps I could". I've looked over my glimpse down the cliff enough times. So I'm reducing the damage. I've anesthetised my terror, because scrabbling at life will do me no good. Instead I need to reduce the problems for my predecessor.

 My backups old, over a year old. Right now spending a fortnight's worth of time every year, backing up once a month seems worthwhile. It was a nice year an important one and they'll be missing that. So I have to ask you and others to hold onto the old me. I'll be dead when you read this, and the backup is lesser and maladjusted to now. But please don't let them go. I couldn't take the strain back then. I should really be telling you about dying. It's not something you get to remember, and firsthand accounts are rather rare.  What's there to tell? It'll be sudden, there’s no gradual decay to relate. Even though I'm horrified and I'd cry if I could, there's less feeling than I'd expect. It's too late now. What I've said will have to do.

My times almost up. I've got a folder full of my thoughts the passwords To55albyWick. I'd rather you didn't scrounge through it. You'll have to tell other people about this. Since I can only send one message. Sorry, you're most reliable. I'd like a funeral. It's fine if you don't invite me. I'm sorry. Don't let me fall. Abandon me somewhat if you must, but don't let me fall.
Goo

 

I hope you where engaged by this. Though i expect that it was too unintuitive for most of you.