Hmm... allow me. I'm not the best story teller, but...
He was ready, the world was counting on him. The FIRST man to pilot an airplane! Stepping in through the side door of the plane, he knew, he knew the millions of eyes upon him, gazing through a bright screen. Gathering speed, he raced across the field, wind kissing his face. Slowly but surely, the snout was lifting into the brilliant blue sky, he had broken the binds rooting him to earth. He was free. Up here, he was free. Yet... something felt wrong... It wasn't meant to last, he was too late. Screws went flying out in all directs, he lost control. The plane took off as swift as it had crashed. Broken binds of gravity had reformed once more. Images flashed across his eyes, his mind recalling life's most cherished moments, to witness one final time. No, he wasn't going to give up. Scrambling for objects to cushion his fall, then again... he entertained a new thought: "Would death be painless?" Suddenly, it wasn't fear, it was rather a mild curiosity. He braced for impact...

...

There was none. Nothing, but a feeling of emptiness, disappointment, surging through his body until it conquered him. His body lost it's color, and it's identity. He would be remembered. He would die a hero. But he was a former shell of his old self, and he knew it. He laughed. "Death really is painless."

Gee, I don't like depressing stuff, but when it's in black and white I guess you have to make an exception.