Have you ever noticed that a person will jump out of their comfort zone for someone they love?

It's like if I were deadly afraid of heights and my girlfriend loved to skydive. I would jump out of the highest plane just to be with her for 15 more minutes of my life.

But sometimes, that person will jump too far outside of their comfort zone for the one they love.

It's like if I were deadly afraid of heights and my girlfriend loved to skydive. I would jump out of the highest plane just to be with her for 15 more minutes of my life. But I grabbed my backpack instead of my parachute.

And in those cases, the someone the person loves can't always save them.

It's like if I were deadly afraid of heights and my girlfriend loved to skydive. I would jump out of the highest plane just to be with her for 15 more minutes of my life. But I grabbed my backpack instead of my parachute. I realized this when I went to tug my release cord and pulled the right strap tighter. My girlfriend floated up above, her parachute deployed, unaware that I was plummeting.

And in those cases, the vultures and the flies get free, hand-tossed pizza for 12 minutes until the most beautiful girl in the world floats down next to them and shoos them away. She sobs over the splat of tomato sauce and melded cheese. She wants to hold it as her tears flow, but she doesn't know what to hold. The pizza has no crust, no backbone, no guts that are intact, and it would split into uneven pieces.

She peers through her stained-glass eyes and sees a distant village in the valley below the large hill we had both landed on. Weak from devastation and half blind from weeping, she begins to make her way downhill towards the village.

Half of the way down, she trips on a rock and begins to tumble down the hill. She lets herself fall, not giving a care in the slightest of her physical condition.

When she reaches the bottom of the hill, she just lays there in the dust, wishing she would die. She has cuts big and small from head to toe. Her clothes are torn and ragged. Her hair, usually luscious, deep brown curly locks, is frayed like twine and sand-coloured with grass weaved through it. Her soul is incomplete, ripped from its other half.

Eventually, she got up on two feet and hobbled towards the village. The sun taunted her as she made her way across the valley. Beads of sweat coated her forehead and dripped down into her swollen, black eyes.

When she finally reached the village, she barely glimpsed the wooden scaffolding surrounding an unfinished stone building through her throbbing eyelids. She hardly smelled the fresh fish being sold in the market over the pungent blood caked in her nostrils. As she limped into square where people were dancing to the lively melody of a fiddle, she looked around for a doctor.

She tried to ask someone directions to a hospital but she is bluntly ignored. No one in the village understood English. All except for a little boy who didn't speak, but came up to her and pointed her to a small building just past the construction with a sign that had a red cross.

She attempted a thankful gesture and grimaced at the pain. There was a glimmer of hope that she saw in the dusty, worn sign. With the rest of her strength, she took step by step on wobbly legs towards it. The boy watched her as she went.

As she struggled her way over to the sign, a few men above started shouting. She looked up to see the lights go out. A stone slab from the construction of the building had fulfilled her deathwish. She had become a flat bread pizza.

The little boy who was watching her smiled like the devil and receded into a side street as townsfolk scattered, the sound of the fiddle abruptly stopping and the fresh fish left abandoned, ready for the taking. The boy confronted a hooded figure in the shadow of the corner who gave him a pouch of a few silver coins.