The Plane
I settle into my seat, A12, which I find quite convenient as it’s located close to the bathrooms. After settling in, I pull out my phone and switch it to airplane mode, then reach for my book, looking forward to immersing myself in its pages. My trip to Australia had been nothing short of amazing—filled with beautiful scenes and unforgettable experiences. It was enjoyable, fun, and incredibly relaxing. I managed to capture all the photos I needed for work, and now I’m eager to return home to North Dakota to send them over to Sam, my boss.
As the flight progresses, I start to feel the fatigue of travel weigh heavily on me, and I decide to take a nap. I close my eyes, allowing the gentle hum of the airplane engines to lull me into a peaceful sleep. Suddenly, I’m jolted awake by a voice over the intercom, warning us about turbulence. My heart sinks; I’ve always had a fear of turbulence. I quickly buckle my seatbelt tightly, taking a deep breath to calm my anxiety. Then, without warning, a loud boom resonates from outside the aircraft. I strain to peer out the window, but all I see is darkness. Suddenly, I feel the stomach-churning sensation of the plane dropping, and everything descends into chaos as the cabin lights start flickering on and off.
A wave of panic washes over me as I hear the cries of babies and shouts of fear erupt throughout the cabin. My mind races as I close my eyes tightly, accepting that this might be the way I die—at the young age of 24—with very few accomplishments to my name—just a collection of photographs. A horrifying thought flashes through my mind: the crash is imminent. I feel the plane striking something outside, and the metal groans in protest. Just as I try to look out the window again, something strikes my head, and I get swallowed by darkness.
When I finally open my eyes, my vision is blurred, and I find myself disoriented. I blink repeatedly, trying to clear my sight, and as it refocuses, the scene around me becomes more horrific. I glance over at the remains of the cabin, and the devastation makes my stomach turn. I fumble with my seatbelt, and after some struggle, I finally free myself from the confines of my seat. As I rise, I take in the sight of the aircraft, which has been torn in half, leaving a gaping wound exposing the sky.
With adrenaline pumping through my veins, I begin to move cautiously through the wreckage, checking on my fellow passengers. I desperately need to know who is okay, who is hurt, and who needs help. I can see a few people awakening, a mix of fear and confusion on their faces. My mind races; I have to make it home.
I spot at least ten people stirring, some disoriented and others in shock. I make my way toward the cockpit, my heart pounding in my chest. As I approach, my worst fears are confirmed: both pilots are dead, the glass of the cockpit is shattered, and the radio is silent, lifeless. The weight of the situation crashes down on me, and I realize that survival now rests in the hands of those of us still conscious. Desperation sets in as I begin to gather my thoughts and come up with a
plan to get out of this nightmare.
As I scan the cabin, I notice a flight attendant moving through the aisles, checking on passengers. Gathering my courage, I walk over to her and gently tap her on the shoulder. She
turns to face me, her expression shifting from professional calm to alarm as she exclaims, “Oh my gosh, you’re bleeding!”
Confused, I reply, “What?” She quickly points to my head, and I instinctively reach up to touch it.
To my horror, I find my fingers slick with blood. Panic rushes through me, but I try to stay composed. “I’ll be fine,” I assure her, attempting to dismiss her concern.
However, she shakes her head disapprovingly, clearly worried about my condition. Feeling the urgency of the situation, I nod in understanding and turn away, making my way toward the bathroom to assess the injury and clean myself up.
