[ WP ] A plane is about to crash and you secretly have the only parachute on the plane , what do you do ?

I know I'm late to the party but this inspired me: 
 
 
 05-11-13 
 
 At least none of it will matter now. 
 
 I ’ ll be free from it. Free from all of the hurt. 
 
 I won ’ t have to pretend that ‘ I ’ m good ’ and ‘ everything is fine ’. I won ’ t have to go through that sickening, heart wrenching process all over again. 
 
 Sure, it might hurt at first. Temporarily. Burning, agonising pain. But only for a few seconds at most, then – oblivion. Nothing. Of course, that is, if I haven ’ t severely misjudged my faith and I ’ m about to spend an eternity in Hell but hey, that seems unlikely. Got ta stay optimistic, even in a situation like this. 
 
 People are freaking out around me. Running around, screaming and crying. Like it makes a difference. Some of them are making phone calls to loved ones. I mean, wouldn ’ t that make it so much worse? Your harrowing last words forever recorded in digital form? Ready so that your family can listen to your final moments. So that they can listen over and over again, torturing themselves over how you must have known the pain, the destruction and the end were imminent. 
 
 I ’ m calm. When the pilot told us to get out oxygen masks, I was a little panicked but I fitted it and I sat tightly with my seatbelt on. In fact, most people did. I suppose oxygen is standard procedure. Unusual, yes, but reason to freak out? No. 
 
 It was when the pilot uttered the words ‘ crash landing ’ that the real panic set in. Some are praying to a God that they ’ ve never believed in. Some are screaming hysterically. Some are simply crying or holding one another. All in all, there ’ s a lot of noise. 
 
 But like I said, I ’ m calm. And it ’ s the calm that scares me. Calm means I want this. Calm means this isn ’ t a frenzied moment of emotional turmoil making me think'I wish I was dead' like some kind of angsty teenager. Calm means serious. 
 
 It scares me a lot more than the prospect of being in a plane crash. For a split second I was scared of that. A wave of nausea ran through me as I thought about the reality of dying. It was really only a second though. 
 
 His words echo in my head; ‘ I ’ m sorry ’. I remember how he lied when he said he loved me. Our wedding day. Our children. Our tabby cat who we adopted when we first moved in together. 
 
 None of that really happened though. The sorry, yes. The lying, yes. But the other stuff was pure fantasy. Synthetic memories, fabricated from youthful optimism and hope. All crushed now. 
 
 He left me. 
 
 I ’ m alone. 
 
 Dying seems like a good option. *At least none of it will matter now. * 
 
 Do you want to know a secret, dear diary? I have a parachute. In my hand luggage. I ’ m paranoid to the point that I ’ m sure I jinx myself half of time simply by preparing for the worst. After learning to skydive for charity last summer I adopted the habit of packing the chute when I fly ‘ just in case ’. 
 
 In any case, while putting on the gear and executing a landing would be relatively simple, the problem is how to get out. I would need a clever and well thought out plan to be able to open the door and jump without angering or endangering other people and frankly I don ’ t have the fight left in me to come up with one. 
 
 Is it ironic? That a depressed girl too afraid to commit suicide is presented with the perfect opportunity to passively kill herself? Given the tools to survive but not the willpower? Perhaps in Alanis Morisette ’ s definition of the word but maybe in my current mood I ’ d call it stroke of luck. An easy way out. 
 
 My chances of survival even if I did manage to use the chute are so slim, there ’ s really no point in trying to survive. Even if I did jump would I land somewhere safe? Probably not. It would be just my luck to land in oncoming traffic or the middle of the ocean. 
 
 I slowly unbuckle my seatbelt and feel the cabin accelerating towards the ground. My stomach swims and my head pounds. People are even more hysterical now. God they ’ re annoying. Screaming is n't going to help, jeez. 
 
 I swallow the last of my gin and tonic in one gulp. Well, really it ’ s over half a glass, but it ’ s not like I can sip it slowly and savour it now is it? I ’ ve never seen a corpse drink gin. Zombies or vampires maybe, but in a few minutes I ’ ll be just your run of the mill dead person and they almost certainly don ’ t drink gin. 
 
 I smile at my own sense of humour. I like humour, especially in hard times. It ’ s one of the things I like most about me. 
 
 A sudden pang of regret strikes my heart. I like me. Was I worth saving? Should I at least have tried to use the parachute? Should I have called my mother one last time to tell her I love her? 
 
 I know nobody will ever read this but at least writing my diary is keeping me from thinking about what's comi
