Tabula Rasa

They exhaled a deep sigh of relief. That’s the worst part, and now it’s done. Every take off was the same - an anxiety, a nausea, a flip of the stomach that hits right at the tipping point of that shift in pressure. It always passed, but in that searing moment, the sickness consumed the mind, and wouldn’t disseminate for an aeon. It affected them. Once the plane levelled out, they ordered a miniature vodka, hid it and ordered another. Ice. No softener. Just to take the edge off. Always just to take the edge off. Nothing more. It’s not a problem until it causes a problem, they told themselves. Tricked themselves? Journeys of any kind had become a problem lately. They thought too much. They tried to understand the mechanics of tin boxes rolling on rubber rings, of metal snakes charging down metal tracks, of aluminium tubes held in the hemisphere by giant fans and flimsy wings. The mind whirred and the perspiration began. Breath became misaligned. One miniature down. The heart rate was settling, their breath falling back into a normal rhythm. In four. Out six. Again. Again. Their screen illuminated with entertainment possibilities galore. The ability to read hadn’t returned, so they resumed their meditative prescription. They chose the chicken. Barely touched it. Ordered another vodka, a dash of coke this time. Can’t draw attention. Must make it to the other side left in peace. Heavy lids teased the possibility of slumber. Good. Sleep is always welcomed in these moments. They fell. The first drop. Eyes wide. Grips on arm rests tightened and a collective gasp broke out from the aisles. The gentle ‘ding’ of the seatbelt sign. Minimal urgency. Calm the mind. In four. Out six. The second drop. It was longer, slower. For a moment they left their seat, a split second of eternity where they were hanging in space. They were airborne. The feeling was magic. The weightlessness without the nausea. It was freedom. It was everything they sought from life. They finally understood. The question was finally answered. Screams erupted. They spoke. “Don’t be scared. I’m-” The crash. It wasn’t as they’d imagined it to be. It didn’t hurt. It wasn’t light. They heard everything. Sand from an hourglass dusted slowly downwards in the distance, counting down the seconds to enlightenment. Counting down their final moments before they met their maker. Or their match. The anticipation of the unknown was rousing. The memory of gravity, strangely comforting. Limbs with no feeling bent into shapes as they stood. A step forward. Feet collided with soft mounds of Earth. Eyes focused. Not Heaven, but a Wreckage. It took a moment to register the fire. Hell stood before their eyes. When their skin screamed with torture they ducked. Not sand but searing. A slow simmer of the flesh. Water. They had to find water. The soft mounds of Earth revealed their true form of singed remains and soft furnishings. Bags and bodies. Bags of bodies. He remained.