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Obliterated
I don’t know about you. But every time I step on a plane, I wonder if it is my last step off terra firma. That moment where one foot, usually my left foot, is still on the gangway and my right foot lands on the floor of the aircraft.
I’ve always had an odd, morbid obsession with air disasters. And judging by the insane media coverage they get, millions of others do too.
I read about the possibilities and imagine myself strapped into one of the seats on that plane. The movie starts playing in my head. I feel the swerve, the first bounce, the first visible sign that something out of the tedious ordinary is going on. The screams from fellow passengers. The horror in the faces of the cabin crew — a sure sign that something is seriously wrong. The increasing velocity as the nose pitches down. Or the sickening drag, if the nose pitches up as the pilots desperately try to regain altitude. Like climbing up a long ladder and slowly feeling it tilt backwards, stalling and then dropping from the sky like a stone.
What would those moments feel like? The terror. The moments of disbelief that life is about to end. How would I react? Can I trust my brain to shut down and prevent me from feeling the moment of unimaginable pain as my flesh is torn apart by the insane forces that would impact on my body during impact?
