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Lando’s sitting in a small airplane, a Cessna 172, flying currently 9'987 feet over the ground, as his altimeter is telling him. It’s his first airplane, he bought it when he was 20, off of an old retired lady. She was quite nice, even gave him a discount when he’d told her that he’d been pursuing his passion of flying since he’d been young.
He got his flight license at 17, did all the theory tests and practice flights as soon as he could. It was a big dream of his to get into aviation one day, fly commercial flights as a pilot, but they didn’t let him in because of his eyesight. Not more than 1,0 diopters on both eyes was the limit. Back then, they gave him his test back and it said 5,5. Many big fat rejection stamps followed. He had to watch most of his colleagues in flight school be able to go on to work with big aviation companies and pursue his biggest dream.
To say that he was bitter is an understatement. His dreams were shattered, he himself destroyed.
He still is, if he’s being honest.
Flying makes him feel calm, calmer than he could ever be on the ground, and in control of his own fate. If he makes a mistake, it’s normally his own fault. Some people would say it’s a weird thing to say when you’re sitting in a metal death trap, but for Lando, that doesn’t matter.
It’s just him, the plane and the views. The mountain region around the coast of the southern french coast has always been his favorite, probably because he knows it best. There’s just him, the mountains and hills, some trees and most importantly, the sea.
And occasionally, the annoying, although sometimes useful, he has to admit, ground control people.
“NCE tower, Nice ground control to MCL38, no other aircraft currently in your vicinity. Over.”
This guy, he sounds nice, for once. Not as annoyed and overworked as the other ones for the Nice airport usually sound. He’s even got a sexy accent. Australian, Lando guesses.
Lando normally flies during the later evening hours, because he loves seeing the sun set from his little plane, the last streaks painting the horizon fiery red and yellow. But today it’s softer, more pastel. He likes these, too. The pinks and purples blend into each other nicely, mixing with the yellow to create a swirl of colors, which reflect off the turbulent sea.
Considering that it’s as late as usual, he’s not really surprised that nobody’s flying close to him. He keeps quiet for a few moments, then pushes the button for the radio after clearing his throat.
“Uh, this is the MCL38, I’m just flying around a bit, so not a lot to do with me. Over.”
The guy on the other side doesn’t answer for an unusually long time, but Lando can hear a cut off scoff when radio static tunes in again. Oh, right. He didn’t comply with protocol for the radio.
“Nice ground control to MCL38, copy. Have a nice flight. Over.”
He hums quietly, debating if he should say something more. He could allow himself to be annoying today, especially since the new guy seems to be having a far too good shift so far.
“Thanks man. Enjoy your shift, over.”
After quickly disconnecting the radio and relaxing into his seat, he looks down on the beautiful scenery below. His eyes trail over the green mountaintops, to the airport and the tower, where some smaller commercial planes are landing and starting in quick succession, then behind the airport, to the sea again.
It looks like the sun’s being lulled to sleep by the waves.
Moving the yoke to the side, he makes a turn right and moves further out towards the sea. He’s just doing his normal little tricks, the ones that are possible with a small airplane.
Luckily, having a small airplane also means he’s insignificant enough to slip by the tower guy, who seems to currently be focused on a passenger plane that’s taxiing down the runway, without him tuning in again.
Lando does his usual route, flying alongside the coast after turning right for about 20 minutes. The sun has now fully disappeared behind the horizon, only the colors remaining. He turns away from them a few moments later, now focused on where the sky is slowly starting to darken.
Flying towards the mountains again, chasing the slowly appearing stars, he lowers his altitude. His altimeter’s telling him he’s around 8’000 feet above ground level now.
His gaze is trailing off, his focus shifting to the mountains in the distance. They look rugged, the bigger ones, cold stone contrasting with the lush grass. They’re scary, big, but still fascinating to Lando. He’s wanted to climb one since ages, but never made it because he hadn’t been feeling that well.
Work’s been exhausting, even though it’s the job he would’ve liked the most, after flying. He works as a freelance graphic designer, and he can’t complain about not having success. It’s been running well, and the past few months he’s gotten various commissions. From app designs to websites, over to stickers and invites for high end parties in Monaco.
Oh, Monaco. It’s a lot to live there, if you’re not super rich or famous. He doesn’t even remember why he even decided to move there. Maybe to evade taxes, because he knew his business would be running well in the future. And it’s not like he was wrong.
It’s not like he didn’t get any jobs, in fact he’s gotten too many, for his taste. Lando simply wasn’t able to keep up with his workload, constantly working late into the night, having mental breakdown after mental breakdown. What followed was a creative and mental blockade, and another big fat stamp in his mental resume, which he diligently keeps track of.
“Mr. Norris, what we’re dealing with here is a burnout. You should take a break for your own sake, or it will get worse. Rather pursue your hobbies, get a vacation, relax, and slowly work yourself up to full workload again. I will write you a medical certificate.”
Lando then proceeded to tell him that it wasn’t needed, he’s his own employer, after all, and left the office as quickly as he could.
Working less was harder than he thought. What do you do with so much more time on your hands, now? At least he didn’t know, for sure. He went on occasional solo flights with his beloved plane, went to the gym, and in the evening usually still made himself work on a new design.
In hindsight, maybe not his smartest move. But what do you do as a freelancer, when you have loads of work piling up? Right, you work. And work, he still did. Until he couldn’t hold his pen up anymore, until he was drooling all over his paper, face flat on his desk.
Workaholic , that’s what his mom called him when she visited two months ago. She was right, of course.
Because of his work, he distanced himself from his friends. Barely called, barely answered, and when he took some spare time off, he went to fly.
He told himself he could push through that hole, through that “burnout”, or whatever, but ended up with a complete creative slump, living in a dirty and dark apartment, a lot of missed calls and nobody to come home to.
Now not even working is fun anymore.
Next stamp in his resume: Biggest loser ever, probably.
Lando gets ripped out of his thoughts by the radio static and an Australian accent.
“Nice ground control to MCL38, just checking in if everything’s going to plan, over.”
Why would this guy check in again? He glances down at his instruments, and hums when he notices he’s lost a lot more altitude than normal. Okay, makes sense.
“Hey Nice ground, everything is going fine. Just enjoying the night before I make my landing. Over.”
The radio crackles, and Lando lets go of the yoke briefly, stretching his arms over his head as best as he can in the claustrophobic cockpit.
“Copy, MCL38. Over.”
The stars are shimmering, the darkness of the night spreading further in the sky. There’s a shooting star, which flies through his field of vision in the blink of an eye. He doesn’t wish for anything.
His hands move back to the yoke, keeping the plane on a steady, but relatively flat downwards course.
“Beautiful night, huh? Over.”
He radios the tower again. When the guy answers, he sounds a bit annoyed.
“Nice ground control to MCL38, yes, beautiful night, over.”
It’s not surprising that he’s pissed off, Lando’s not going by protocol at all now. But it doesn’t matter.
“I’m always excited to go flying, no matter the weather. It feels freeing. Today especially. Over.”
The guy on the other end hums, the radio static louder than whatever he mumbled under his breath.
“Nice ground control to MCL38, glad to hear that. But I will now have to take on a few landings, over.”
Lando smiles softly, then lets out a chuckle.
“No problem. Have a good night, man. Be safe. Over.”
He only gets a confused noise and static as an answer, then the radio goes silent again.
The altimeter goes down steadily, now reaching around 7100 feet. He’s flying lower than the mountaintops now, and if he keeps his planned route, it’ll be around ten minutes until he reaches them, if he keeps his speed.
Suicide.
What a complicated thing, at least for Lando. He planned it all out, thought about it a lot of times. Went through every step meticulously. All his savings would go to an animal shelter, he liked the dogs there, even thought about getting one. But he wouldn’t have had the time to take care of it.
Most of his open commissions he finished before getting into the plane, they are all stored on a hard drive on his desk. He put a sticky note on it to let the investigators know. There’s some unfinished art on it as well, if anyone wanted to have it. He honestly just copied his whole folder onto the drive.
His landlord will eventually get his apartment cleared and cleaned out. Lando left all his mess how it was before leaving, not bothered enough to clean it himself. He doesn’t think it’s embarrassing at all, it was just him.
The approach to his own death is unusual, not many people even own an airplane. Hardly any people struggling with mental health fly. They’re not allowed to, and in most cases, they get their license revoked. Almost no people decide to take their own life.
He never got anything diagnosed but his burnout. After that, he never set foot into a psychiatrist’s office again. If they found anything out, he wouldn’t have been able to fly anymore, he read through all the rules, looking for a slight chance, but to no avail. It had been in front of him, black ink on white paper.
“(e) Mood disorder”
“An established mood disorder is disqualifying. After full recovery and after full consideration of an individual case a fit assessment may be considered, depending on the characteristics and gravity of the mood disorder. If a stable maintenance psychotropic medication is confirmed, a fit assessment should require a multi-pilot limitation.”
“(i) Deliberate self-harm”
“A single self-destructive action or repeated acts of deliberate self-harm are disqualifying. A fit assessment may be considered after full consideration of an individual case and may require psychiatric or psychological review. Neuropsychological assessment may also be required.”
Lando would have to get better. And that’s a lot of work, starting with even getting a place in a therapy program. Takes a lot of time and money, if you want any good doctor. And he’d have to give up flying, which is not happening. He’d rather die.
The plane is steering downwards. Slowly, steadily. Around 100 feet per minute. He’ll hit one of the bigger mountain faces head on if he keeps it like this. He’s at 6’500 feet right now. Take this exactly 194’000 times and you reach the moon.
His calculations are interrupted by the radio static tuning in again.
“Nice ground control to MCL38, recording significant decline in altitude, please affirm. Over.”
He slowly reaches for the radio button, his thumb pressing it down after a long moment to buy himself enough time to come up with an excuse.
“Affirm. Just having a bit of trouble with the altimeter. Should be fine soon, over.”
The radio guy sighs yet again – can this man do anything else but sigh? – and answers with a monotone voice.
“Copy that, MCL38. Over.”
5 minutes left. He’ll hit the mountain at an altitude of around 5’500 feet. Today is the 1st of September.
He’s getting closer, and he has to start looking upwards to see the mountaintop. It towers over him, the stars in the sky behind it still flickering like before. The darkness of the night has now wrapped around the whole sky.
The guy in the tower will probably expect him to gain altitude or turn the plane, and Lando just prays he won’t notice. Hopefully the guy’s busy. Or decides to just ignore him and let him do his thing.
He doesn’t, frustratingly.
“Nice ground control to MCL38, please affirm turn around initiation. Over.”
Lando’s hand reaches for the radio button, blood rushing to his ears and to his head. He feels slightly dizzy. His heart is beating out of his chest, and he can feel the pulsing everywhere in his body.
He doesn’t push the radio button, instead decides to enjoy these slowly moving moments, focusing on his breath and on his own thoughts.
“Max Carlos Liam three eight, affirm please. Over.”
He winces at the names in the callsign. The guy’s now speaking more urgently. There’s some nervousness evident in his voice. Maybe he’s not really experienced yet.
Lando turns his head to the right, watching the airport lights in the distance. The little green light on his wing is blinking continuously.
He pushes the radio button and glances back at his instruments, taking a deep breath.
“Everything’s under control, don’t worry. I’m almost done. Over.”
The plane is still not moving to any side, no signs of turning to be seen. He doesn’t want to.
“What are you doing?”
Ground control guy asks, his voice calm and steady. He seems to have regained his composure.
A bead of sweat rolls down Lando’s forehead, and his palms feel sticky. He grips the yoke until his knuckles turn white.
“Oh, you know, the usual. I’m just flying. Over.”
Lando’s voice comes out less stable than he wished it would have. He sounds like when he has a cough, his voice cracking.
“You need to turn around, or you’re going to collide with the mountain, mate!”
He’s fine. He’ll be fine. Deep breaths. Don’t let yourself get distracted.
“I’m fine.”
Some instruments start showing incoming danger, the radar of his plane showing the mountains coming closer in the distance for the first time. A warning light warns him of incoming terrain.
Lando closes his eyes, trying to calm the upcoming panic inside his chest by taking a deep breath.
“What are you doing, and why are you doing it?”
The guy asks again, this time almost barking into the radio. It makes him shudder, and he keeps his eyes closed.
“Are you nuts? Don’t do this, mate!”
Lando didn’t write any note, any letter. Nobody but him will know what he went through. And it’s all his own fault.
He opens his eyes again, looking out of the window. The mountains have gotten closer. There’s roughly around 2 minutes left until impact.
The adrenaline is rushing through his veins. A little smile makes its way onto his lips.
Acceptance of his scuffed fate.
“No worries. I know what I’m doing. Everything is fine. Over.”
Momentarily, the radio static disappears.
“Please don’t do this. Shit, fuck.”
Lando can hear a small sob.
“Why are you doing this? You still sound so young, you have so much still left to do…”
He can hear the desperation in the voice of the other guy. Yet, he’s already so close to the wall. He doesn’t slow down. Never, ever.
“Life’s been tough. You don’t know anything about me. You don’t know what I’ve been dealing with.”
His voice is getting shaky, he has to admit. He tries to keep his hands under control. The alarms are starting to blare, the beeping penetrating his skull. The alarms telling him to pull up. But he doesn’t.
“No, I don’t. But we can talk about this, please. Later. Please pull to the side, mate. You still have time to turn this around.”
The guy sounds desperate. Worried. He cares about Lando, or at least he sounds like it. Even though he doesn’t know him. He can just hear his voice.
Lando considers pulling to the side briefly. He really does. But he’s just so close now, almost there, just a few moments more.
“Please. I know you don’t know me, but I care. I swear I do.”
The adrenaline makes his heart race. The guy cares. He doesn’t know who he is, but he cares. It’s a new feeling. He likes it.
There’s sweat running down his back, making his suit stick to his skin.
“If I turn around, will you talk to me?”
He bites his chapped lips nervously, the iron taste of his blood spreading on his tongue. The guy on the radio gasps.
“Yes, of course. I promise, okay?”
Lando stalls in his seat. He considers this offer. The guy sounds nice and sincere enough, if he’s being honest. He contemplates.
And he comes to a conclusion. The 1st of September is not the day he’s supposed to die.
He slowly moves the yoke to the right. The flaps on the wings begin to move, and he feels the plane starting to turn. His breathing is still unsteady, and he feels dizzy from the adrenaline.
“Please keep talking.”
He mumbles, as his plane is gaining distance to the mountains. The guy hums quietly.
“Okay, uhm. Let me tell you about my hobby.”
Lando hums in response, giving a quiet confirmation.
“You know padel? I absolutely suck at it. But it’s still fun.”
This confession brings a little chuckle out of Lando. He pushes the throttle forward, gaining a bit more speed.
“Padel? Never played it before, never understood it either. Is it more like tennis or badminton?”
“More like tennis, I guess. You play it on a smaller court than tennis, I believe. You can also play off the walls.”
The guy keeps rambling, using a calm tone of voice. It brings a small smile out of him, even though his heart is still beating in his chest. He imagines what he could look like based on his voice. Young, probably. He’s giving off the vibe of a tall guy.
“Sounds pretty mint. But why are you playing even if you suck at it?”
Lando looks out the window, starting to fly on course to the airport. His mind is just focusing on flying safely and on the guy’s voice now. He doesn’t let his thoughts drift back to where he was a few minutes ago.
“Cause it’s the only sport me and my friends all do. Except going to the gym. Absolutely hate going to the gym.”
There’s an awkward chuckle, which he thinks sounds sweet. Lando laughs out loud.
“I’m the opposite. I love going to the gym, you know. It’s the only reason I even leave the house except for flying.”
He stays quiet for a moment, then continues, to not let the conversation die down.
“I hate team sports, though. Never liked playing them.”
The guy groans in response, while Lando’s getting closer to the airport.
“I don’t like them either when I’m not playing with my friends. Back in school I always felt bad for my classmates in my team. I suck at team sports.”
What he’s saying is very relatable, at least to him. Team sports are the bane of Lando’s existence, because in his mind he always connects them with bad feelings.
“You also must’ve been one of the kids rather staying inside during the break, huh?”
“I was in the chess club, yeah. Preferred that over sports by a lot.”
Lando is now in the closer vicinity of the airport, already able to see the runway lights next to him.
“Turn 120° left, keep altitude and prepare for landing, MCL38. Over.”
He smiles a bit at the thought of the ground control guy being in a chess club as a kid. It’s cute.
“Copy. 120° left, keep altitude. Preparing for landing, Nice ground control. Over.”
After he’s turned the plane left, he lowers the altitude to around 3000 feet. He takes some throttle off, the engines of the plane quieting down.
“And you? Were you in any clubs?”
Lando thinks back to his school days, then hums.
“Not really. I did a lot of drawing next to learning for flight school. I never joined any clubs properly.”
The radio crackles, and he hears the guy speak again.
“That’s fine, you know. Doesn’t matter. At least you can fly a plane, while I only do air traffic control.”
Lando smiles, realizing how absurd this situation is. Quarter of an hour ago, he was ready to fly himself into a mountain to end his life. And now he’s chatting with the air traffic control guy he doesn’t know, like they’d just met at a supermarket.
“Well, the ATC is important, you know. You’re helping me land safely, after all.”
The guy hums quietly.
“Yeah.” He hums again. “Yeah, it’s… Please just be careful, yeah?”
Lando lowers his speed further, preparing for the landing and turning on and off various switches. He’s waiting for instructions to lower the altitude.
“I will, now. Thank you, by the way. For the talking, and stuff.”
He gets a bit shy towards the end, forcing himself to speak up. But he sounds sincere and genuinely thankful.
“Nice ground control to MCL38, lower altitude to 900. Over.”
While he pushes the yoke downwards, he glances at the altimeter, watching it carefully, waiting until the plane reaches 900 feet.
“Copy, Nice ground. Lowering altitude to 900.”
The runway is coming closer, the lights blinding Lando a bit. He squints his eyes and keeps the yoke steady.
“Nice ground control to MCL38, clear for landing. Over.”
He glances at the tower next to the runway, wishing he could see the guy he’s been talking to.
“MCL38 to Nice ground, copy. Clear for landing. I’m bringing her down now. Over.”
He pushes the button for activating the landing gear, and listens to the hydraulics moving the wheels out of the plane. The plane’s in the perfect line to the runway, and his altitude is decreasing steadily.
630 feet.
550 feet.
230 feet.
81 feet.
4 feet.
The wheels hit the tarmac with a soft bump, the landing smooth, probably the smoothest he’s ever done. He lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding, his chest deflating instantly. The adrenaline begins to slowly leave his body, his fingers shaking.
The radio breaks the silence in the cockpit as he’s slowly taxiing the plane down the runway.
“Nice ground control to MCL38, use hangar A34 for parking, just follow the taxiway until junction 2 and then turn left. Over.”
The guy sounds tired, almost as if not more than Lando, as if he’s just collapsed completely.
“MCL38 to Nice ground, copy. Parking A34 via taxiway until junction 2 and then turn left. Over.”
The plane is now just rolling down the taxiway, following the illuminated lines on the black tarmac. The airport looks huge from this point of view, especially at night, towering over him as he drives by. He reaches junction 2 and turns left, following the smaller runway towards a group of hangars.
They’re labeled with big, white fonts, and Lando squints his eyes to spot A34 in the distance. He eventually finds it, and comes to a halt in front of it.
When he turns the engines off, he leans back in his seat, savoring the silence. He’s letting everything that just happened finally get to him and buries his face in his hands after ripping his helmet and headset off, feeling a sob coming deep from his chest.
This was the most stupid thing he’s ever done. And even though he planned it for so long, he still feels like he wasn’t thinking at all when he finally tried to do it.
He keeps to himself, normally. He’s been living in pretty much complete isolation over the past few months, burying himself in piles of work.
But this encounter felt nice. Lando liked talking to the ground control guy. It was a pleasant conversation towards the end, and he seemed to actually care.
Maybe they could talk more often.
He squints when his cockpit is illuminated by headlights. When he turns his head, he sees a little airport vehicle standing next to his plane, a few meters away. A guy gets out of it and gives him a small wave, his arm not moving by a lot.
Lando pushes himself out of his seat, opens the cockpit and almost falls out of the plane in quick succession. He jumps out, landing on the floor with a thump. As he turns around, he sees the guy standing in the headlights of the vehicle, his face hidden by the shadows.
Nobody but them will know what almost happened that night.
The adrenaline starts to come back into his tired limbs, and he feels as if he were standing on the start line of an olympic sprint.
He starts to run towards the light.