There aren't many times in my life where I've felt inexplicably numb. In fact, I've always had a plan if I were ever in trouble, but this time I was coming up blank. Torn shirt, smudged lipstick, broken stiletto. Frazzled hair. Middle of nowhere. Everything is blurry; I can't see anything since I lost my glasses.
There's a soft wind brushing against my face and I actually feel quite at peace, ironic I know. Sitting up, I clutch the sand in my hands and feel the ocean gently sweep my fingers. I can faintly work out a wing on the oceanfront. I can still hear the screams, the engines working overtime, the cases falling from inside the cabin lockers. I can still see the fear in the cabin crew's faces; the whites of their knuckles as they clutch the arm rest and I can still feel us falling, and yet everything now in front of me is so calm.
No noises. Just the sea rolling back and forth. Part of me wants to investigate and see if there are any survivors and part of me wants to curl into a ball and die, because the chances of getting off this island seem miniscule. I take off my beautiful Chanel heels that I'd saved so hard for and threw them to the side —they were probably more suited for the board meeting I was on my way to instead of whatever I could call this situation. Rescue mission? Survival of the fittest? (If it's the latter I could absolutely not run in them anyway—I can barely run in a pair of Nikes!) I can hear my heart pounding in my ears as I look around for someone, something, anything. I edge over to the body of the plane, it feels like hours before I get there. I'd never liked horror films, though I wished I'd watched them now to desensitize myself for this.
The fact my glasses have gone walkabout probably done me a favour given what I could see without perfect vision- limbs, organs, bits of brain, luggage sprawled over the beach, parts of the plane scattered everywhere, clothes bobbing in the ocean. I'd picked up a pair of glasses from the floor in the hopes it would aid my vision—I could see better than I did but not perfectly. Beggars can't be choosers—I can't help but think of my purse, which held my Tic Tacs and a photo of my hubby Jay and beautiful Spaniel, Eddie. I'd give anything to look at the picture once more. To be taken back home one more time. For the last time, I'm sure.
I keep hoping I wake up and this is all a bad dream, but I know deep down it's not for it's all too real. I can taste the salty air and I can feel my skin burning; it may not be a bad dream but it's certainly a living nightmare. If only I was more into Bear Grylls like Jay! I would be setting up camp by now and having a half decent meal. Instead I'm staring around gormlessly, just like Needy Ned back at the office. How I miss that idiot. I remember the last time we saw each other, I snapped at him for asking the same question the fourth time that day—looking back I probably should have had a Snickers bar before answering him. Snapping back to reality, surrounded by the deceased and redundant pieces of aircraft. Lots of bodies and no one to talk to, no one to ask for help. My eyes well up and my mascara runs down my face. I cried like I've never cried before.
I sink to the sand. I miss Jay, I miss Eddie, I even miss Needy Ned. I miss my parents. I miss watching crappy daytime TV. I've been here for what must be an hour and already I feel like I've been here years. I'm scared. No one knows where I am. I'm so alone. I don't know what to do.