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d o w n f o r c e

d o w n f o r c e

/ˈdounfôrs/

noun

a force acting on a moving vehicle having the effect of pressing it down toward the ground, giving it increased stability. Downforce is produced by a combination of air resistance and gravity.

[X]

I've thought about this before.

I actually got the idea from Brock, bless his soul.

Back when we were still very much In Love, Brock considered hiring a special ops assassin on Craigslist to try to kill him. Keyword being Try. To my dismay, I soon realized domestic life bored my husband to tears - it dulled his sharp fangs into flat, functional molars. Brock obsessed over what couldn't kill him; he calculated the survivability outcome of every possible emergency before he left for work each week. He was a YETI camping cooler, virtually indestructible unless proven otherwise. 

I gave thanks for the protective bubble that kept him safe long enough to meet me because deep-down we both knew it wasn't true. More than once Brock watched equally worthy men, all stronger men than him, die from explosives handmade by illiterate desert children. Strong, worthy men who'd never meet their soulmates. Or see them again.

Despite this grim reality, Brock missed his old life with a peculiar fondness I could never quite understand. I didn't ask him about it because I simply wasn't interested in whatever nonsense propaganda the military trained into him.

"Wouldn't hiring a mercenary go against the Green Beret code?"

Brock sniffed, mildly smug. "The only code we had was 'don't die.' And 'never leave a fallen comrade.'"

(Isn't that ironic? It feels ironic.)

I wasn't exactly an army wife. Not in the typical sense. I didn't have to worry about deployments or if the soldiers captured on CNN included my dearly beloved Captain Joe-Brockton Enderby.

Brock came into my life purely mine, retired after twenty years of going where told, shooting on command, jumping when instructed.

Perhaps that's why our marriage failed. We were both rather old when we soulmarked - I was twenty-six and Brock was ripe in his early thirties. By then we'd already grown accustomed to living single. Actually, I'd almost given up hope I'd meet my soulmate at all. But the universe was merely a bit delayed submitting our bonding paperwork. I think if we met in high school like most soulmates I'd be in love with an entirely different man. By the time I met Brock the sick claws of American military imperialism had already dug deep and the scars healed over like ghastly stretch marks. Signs of growth.

Regardless, there are many ways to end your life and I've thought about them extensively.

Assassination isn't my first resort.

I've considered all manner of death involving my car. Studies say the most dangerous thing an American can do is get in a car - so it should serve my purpose just fine, right? Perhaps while I'm rounding the track I'll "lose control" of the steering wheel and rocket into the barrier wall at 200 MPH. It's happened before, especially with older stock cars like mine. Not even the Incredible Brock would survive that impact.

OR I can swerve mid-race and ream into another driver, our cars tail spinning and wheels shrieking as we explode in a battery of flames.

But I don't want to involve an innocent bystander in my quest for relief. So another way, then.