United States

A teenager who enjoys videogames, Netflix, blogging, and reading, sometimes all at once. She also enjoys writing light and creative pieces, and isn't sure why she's writing this in the third person.


November 8, 2015

PROMPT: Open Prompt

  The engines roar. I can't hear myself think. Noise. Just noise. It is louder than anything I've ever heard. A surge of fear rushes through me, an ocean of worries. I want to throw up. Breathe in. Breathe out. I crack open my eyes long enough to glance down and see two clenched fists next to me. They are my own. I feel a sensation - speed. I shoot a look at the calm girl sitting next to me and squeeze my eyes shut. The roar increases and the gleaming white prison begins to shake and move as I inhale. I peer to my right but quickly glance back. The ground moves faster, faster. I squeeze my eyes shut.
    I wake up, groggy. It's 4 am and I'm lying in my bed. My dad is shaking me awake, and as I remember why he is waking me up, a surge of fear rushes up my stomach into my throat. Rolling out of bed, I croak out a feeble uuhhhggg. My eyes crack open to see a bright white ceiling, and desperately hope I can go back to sleep. But I can't, because today is the day we go to Washington D.C. and we get on a plane. In the sky. With terrorists and bombs and who knows what else. And this is the day I get on an airplane and I get over my fear.
   I sit up and my dad looks down upon me. "Come on. The driver is here. It's time to go." My stomach feels like it has been twisted into a pretzel. This is probably my fourth or fifth time going on an airplane. I hate everything about airplanes, from their shape and size to the hustle and bustle of the airport. I wonder to myself, where did this fear come from? The first time I went on an airplane, I remember being excited, thrilled. But overtime a case of the jitters turned into a phobia, a paranoia. A paranoia of every little thing that could possibly go wrong. Because it can. I know it can. And it will.
    I step outside. It is cold. A sharp spike shoots down my throat and into my lungs. My teeth are click clack clacking, but not from the cold. I grasp the dark, cold handle of the car. The door swings open and I slowly crawl inside. Breathe in...breathe out....breathe in...breathe out...
    In about half an hour we arrive at the airport and I know this whole thing was a mistake. People, people everywhere. There are so many people here...they can't all be good people. How could all these people have good intentions. They can’t right? Right. No wait. What? I am screaming on the inside, TURN BACK!!!, but nobody is there to hear me. I stare up at the looming building. It overshadows me. It overpowers me.  I'm certain I can hear my heart beating 1,000 miles per hour. WHAM! WHAM! WHAM! Is it possible to die from fear? I'm sure it must be. I think that’s happened to my mom’s pet parakeet. And that lady that my grandmother knew.
    I push back all of my thoughts as I step inside the glistening white airport. I hope this isn’t what heaven looks like. I remember that today is the day, in a few hours my fear will be no more. I see an advertisement for Cinnabon, or some sort of knockoff. The ads of glistening food comforts me a little bit. These people have everything under control. I am relatively calm. This is supposed to be enjoyable. I'm fine. No, I'm great. Fabulous. Marvelous. Just keep walking. Walking, walking. My heart slows to match my footsteps. Thumpthumpthumpthump. I think of Thumper the bunny. I am pretty sure he dies in the end.
And then we get to security.
   This is the most dreadful part of the entire "airplane experience." You would think that the
amount of security would comfort me, but it only causes me to notice the lack of it. Is that security guard really paying attention? What if the metal detector is broken? Is the camera good enough? Is someone even watching the screen? I pass through the metal detector and hold my breath. Maybe I will get arrested. A sign stands all alone. Visitors may not turn back after security.
  I hardly notice but all of a sudden I am stepping through the cold, metal arch. The light turns green and beeps, and my family and I pass through without dilema. Finally, finally we get to the terminal. By this point, I am having a full on panic attack. I try to breathe but I can't. In, out, in, out. My stomach lurches and I panic. I start to gag and I still can’t breathe. In out in out in out inoutinoutinoutINOUTINOUT!
    At this point, we meet up with our friends who are coming on vacation with us. The girl my age goes by the name of Gabby, and she treats airplanes like a rollercoaster ride. A fun rollercoaster ride with free sodas and an in-ride movie. She knows of my fear and tries to look past it.
 "Hey," she says as she tears open a bag of candy with her teeth. She struggles because she is carrying a huge book the size of a small dog.
 "Hey," I curtly reply.
 She plops a perfect package of gummy worms in my lap, and I begin to absentmindedly gnaw on them. She knows that I love to gnaw on anything, and she’s all too familiar with the fact that gummy worms are my absolute favorite candy. She yawns, then studies me for a moment with a quizzical look that is all too familiar.
 "Are you okay? Because you know it’s just a plane ride. It’s fun!" she says gleefully.
 “Yeah, fun for the terrorists.” I shoot back.
 My friend is all too aware of my fear. We know everything about each other, we always have. I think we gravitate towards each other because of our similarities: a sense of humor, kindness, and a shared love of reading. One thing we do not share, however, is our fears. I probably couldn’t tell you what Gabby is afraid of. Her favorite character dying? Her best shirt being torn?
 She chuckles at my panicked face and launches into a speech about her new favorite book series by her new favorite author, which seems to change every few weeks. Apparently this is the huge book she has reading for the past 20 minutes. This time it is a book called The Immortal Secrets of Nicolas Flamel.
 A voice crackles over the static of my mind. "Attention all passengers, boarding for flight 934 is now open. Repeat, boarding for flight 934 is now open." My mind feels like one of those haunted houses that encourage you to turn back, even when you get to the end. It would be smarter to keep going, but you are still terrified. I stand up slowly, and I try not to let my knees buckle. I hum 80’s music under my breath in an attempt to shut out my mind.
    We walk down the terminal. It is quiet and small, and I absolutely hate it. We reach the plane. Here it is. The moment is here. I put one foot into the plane, and then the other. I plaster on a smile and I nod to the pilot. It's always nice to know that they are there. The woman nods at me, almost like she can read my mind. I'm certain she has seen passengers who look worse than I do.
    We squeeze through the plane compartment. I study each person's face, from the old to the young. Young kids could be terrorists, you know. After a few minutes of squishing, squeezing, squabbling our way down the aisle, we finally reach our seats and strap in. Now it is time to get over my fear. I wonder when exactly it will happen. We sit and wait and sit and wait. The engines finally roar and my stomach lurches and drops at the same time, sort of like silly putty. A certain cuss word continues to repeat itself inside of my head. I close my eyes while await what's to come, and I suddenly remember a phrase I once heard, said by Mike Heck, who probably isn't the most reliable philosipher, but hey. "You can't just survive life, you have to live it."


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  • November 8, 2015 - 1:14pm (Now Viewing)

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