Thirty-three.
Life doesn't flash in front of your eyes as you face death. Those who say that are typically survivors, survivors who would prefer to forget the experience of looking at death. Luckily for them, they escaped their fate, usually as a result of dumb luck. Only after realizing that you've survived does your life flash before you in one quick blur. However, before that moment your vision is locked on death's uncompassionate stare like deer caught in the headlights. Not in a mere flash, but in agonizing slow motion you see what awaits you with crystal vision.
Bob won't see his life flash before him because he won't survive. He can't, and this is truly the most terrifying revelation every man goes through, finding out that not everything can be conquered. Man's arrogance isn't limited to external factors. He will battle his own failing body in the hope of eking out another fraction of existence that is, itself, insignificant, like a fruit fly focusing all its efforts on a mere additional hour of life. Luckily for Bob, the possibility of a fight has been removed and all he can simply do is ride his way down.
Thirty-two, thirty-one.
There isn't even a moral in Bob's demise. He was a responsible man, husband, and father. He'd always met expectations at work, until today. Today, while putting the new Hamil Brothers' Zenith elevator through its quality tests, Bob had become curious and deviated from his checklist. It was such a simple test that he'd thought it curious how no one had ever thought to do it before. Sadly Bob's good deed would come at a cost, and as the elevator picked up speed, his attention fixated on the exact amount that price would be. The life of good and evil men both share the same end.
In primitive cultures, Bob's sacrifice would have earned him a spot in legend, sacrificing himself in the course of uncovering a threat against his tribe. There won't be any such legends for Bob. While his wife and kids will remember him, his employer, Hamil Brothers, will be maneuvering every possible way to forget him. No, of course, the fatal flaw doesn't exist in all their elevators. It was a random fluke. Their engineers will confirm this, but also patch the elevator's computer code just in case. Just a precautionary safety feature. Nothing to worry about.
Thirty, twenty-nine, twenty-eight.
Smith & Barny, the prestigious legates held on retainer by the insurance company that cover Hamil Brothers, will argue that the employer was not liable for Bob's death. That Bob, who twenty years of meeting expectations, was negligent that day. Had he simply stuck to the pre-approved checklist, he would still be alive today. While it is true that he would be alive, the flaw would not have gone unnoticed, resulting in the future death of a senior partner of Smith & Barny. For indirectly sparing their lives, they reward Bob by saving the insurance company an expensive pay-out which Bob's wife and kids would need to survive on.
Bob's wife won't have much time to mourn her husband. His final check gives them barely any cushion in their transition to a new life. His wife will have to work harder to support their son who is just entering the age where he really needs his father. She will try to find a suitable replacement, someone who cares and will provide a good role model for her son. Such men are few and far in-between. As each successive failed relationship leaves its scar on her emotions, it would be a miracle if anything that for her to recognize Bob-like qualities in the kind car mechanic she meets years after her son has graduated college.
Twenty-seven, twenty-six, twenty-five, twenty-four, twenty-three.
Yet, Bob isn't thinking about any of that at the moment. He's barely thinking at all. His body is operating well enough on fear alone. His stomach tightens with an acidic illness. His tongue whets with a metallic taste. Had Bob recently ate, the contents of the meal would be covering the elevator. Feeling light headed, the very small cabin begins to spin. Too late to call in sick and death does not care the state of his body. A kinder world would allow Bob to go unconscious and receive a humane death, but all the advocates are currently busy trying to make the death of convicted murderers more pleasant.
Twenty-two, twenty-one, twenty, nineteen, eighteen, seventeen, sixteen, fifteen.
The elevator now screams with a banshee wail as it plummets. His mind stares back at death, locked into an imagination of what awaits for him the next second. It will look like a train wrecked except vertically. As if all the cars impacted and flattened on one spot. He will likely be alive briefly, unless he's lucky enough to be decapitated in the crash. A few extremely painful breaths, and finally his body will give out due to stress. The last thing that will go will be his mind, absent its senses. Just a ball of static as its fades to white. For the first time since the birth of his newborn son, Bob cries.
Fourteen, twelve, eleven, ten. "Oh God." Nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two. One.
