The first thing I notice is the silence. Shouldn't there be screams, or at least groaning? People moving around to help each other, wounded calling for help?
Instead, nothing.
The second thing I notice is that my sense of balance is off. I am strapped to my seat, yet it feels like I am lying flat on the ground. (Could indicate head injury. I remember pain. Did I hit my head?)
Opening my eyes is a hard task and takes hours. Or so it feels. My sense of time is also off. When they are finally open, I do not understand what I see. I thought my head was bending down between my knees, and that I should see the cabin floor. I do see the cabin floor, but from the side, at eye level, not from above. That is weird. Did the plane get that twisted?
I have to blink but that does not correct the strange image.
When I slowly start moving my limbs (do they all work properly?) I get completely confused. I try and raise my arm but it is stopped by something solid. I try to raise my head but it only seems to move sideways. When I stir my legs and they seem to move sideways, too, it finally makes sense. Despite my initial feeling I am no longer sitting on my seat but lying flat on the aisle.
How did that happen?
Now that I understand where I am, I can sit up with some effort. It makes me dizzy. Around me, people start to moan. Somewhere, a child is crying.
Where is John?
I look up to the seat next to me and stare into the dead eyes of the woman who tried to flirt with John when we boarded the plane (broken neck, most likely not bracing for impact). For some reason, I cannot avert my eyes. She is dead. People died in the crash. (Of course they did. We fell straight from the sky.)
If other people have died, John might as well.
I panic. Want to stand up and start looking for him. Want to find him. Want to see if he is alive and help him if he needs help and get out of this godforsaken plane.
Yet, I remain sitting on the ground, looking at her (not even knowing her name). She is unharmed except for the broken neck. A very fine line of blood has dripped out of her nose when it happened. It is still bright red but no longer running. (That should tell me how long I have been out but it doesn't.) A single strand of her hair (only one) hangs into her face, the rest is still neatly tugged away in a complicated hairdo. She is dirty, fine grey dust covering her. (Me, too?) Would she have refrained from flying if John had not reassured her?
It takes me hours (or seconds, no idea) to look away and get up. Where am I? I know I noticed her again when we boarded the plane, but was she sitting in front or behind us? (There is a logical flaw in my thoughts, I know it but I cannot put my finger on it.)
Which row were we sitting in? I can't remember. I don't know where to look for John.
Next to me on the other side of the aisle, an unconscious man is dying. No need to give first aid. His breath is failing already, his hands are twitching. He will be dead in about one minute. The gurgling sound of his ragged breathing is hypnotising. Blood is spraying out of his mouth every time he breathes out (punctured lung caused by violent pressure?) His eyes are closed. He is also covered in dust. His whole arm is twitching now, his muscles fighting for life while his brain has lost already. Then only the fingers continue to move, then they stop, too. His body gulps for air the way only the dying do, inefficiently, no air entering his tormented lungs.
I cannot turn away. I need to stand beside him until he is dead. Finally, a shiver runs through his body and his hand drops down from his belly. Like the gesture you see in bad films, to hammer into the audience that somebody is really dead.
I do not want to look away. If I do, I'll see only more of that.
But I need to find John.
Or do I need to leave the plane? Is there a danger of explosion? I cannot remember if the Airbus was fuelled at Inverness. I could not leave this plane without John anyway.
John.
I really need to find him. I should shout his name but I am scared that I won't get an answer because he is -
So, where to go, to the front of the plane or towards the tail? When I look back, I can see the soft hill we must have touched when crash-landing. The tail section of the Airbus has broken off. I turn my head to the front section, and there are trees. So the plane has broken at least into three parts. (That's where the dust is coming from, then. Earth, dispersed at the impact, still filling the air, entering the cabin through the enormous holes at both ends.)
The child stops crying. (Don't wonder why! Just don't think about it!)
I slowly make my way to the front rows of what is left of the cabin. It takes forever. I do not help the young man pleading for help, nor the woman who tries to unfasten her seat belt. There is pain every time I need to reach for one of the headrest to stabilize myself but I cannot make a connection to where I got hurt. Am I in some state of shock?
There are 43 rows on this plane. In every one of them, people are scared or hurt or dying or dead. After passing the third row - (a man, mostly unhurt besides a strained ankle, shouting at another man who is dying. He loves him (brother rather than lover), and he is losing him. His voice is breaking as he repeats his angry chant of "Do not leave me" again and again. Next to them, an old lady is suffering from a head wound (smashed her head against the window. It's smeared with her blood). She will not survive but has not realised it yet. She is staring at the back of the seat in front of her while her hands are fumbling with the seat belt. Her fingers lose grip again and again, her fine motor skills already gone.)
After passing the third row my brain tunes out all of the horrors. I know there must still be people all around me but I can no longer see them clearly. It is simply too much to comprehend.
My brain is capable of fooling me in cruel ways. (I never had a dog.) What if I pass John and he is so badly hurt that my brain will tune him out as well? What if that has already happened?
(Can't think about it now. Need to go on!)
It takes me eight rows before I realise my mistake: I have been pushed out of my seat when the plane came to a stop. That means I must have been thrown forward. Our row must be behind me, and now I am moving even further away from it.
Fatigue seems to fall from the sky (like we did not long ago). My legs stumble, and I can barely turn around without falling to my knees. I notice pain somewhere in my body, several places hurt but I cannot tell which. How can I ever make it back all the way to John?
But I need to.
So I pass the third row again. I cannot tell if the brother is still alive or if the lady managed to open her seat belt because I cannot see them clearly. They are just blurred figures now, barely visible.
Another blurred figure touches me, probably trying to help me. I cannot talk to him, somehow, only push him aside to pass him by. He says something but I ignore him. Need to find John!
And then I can finally see him. (Breathing, is he breathing?) In the midst of tragedies he is the only person I can see sharply. He is still strapped to his seat, his head lolling to the left (but not too far, no broken neck!). Blood is dripping onto his forehead, mixing with the dirt on his face (but not too much, no danger from loss of blood). (But is he breathing?) His eyes are closed, and his whole body slack (but not completely, like a corpse). He is unconscious (not dead).
I do not understand why my hands are shaking as I reach out to feel his pulse. (Steady.) I look down and see his chest moving up and down regularly (and my sight is slightly unfocused, I need to blink a few times to see him clearly) (Why are there tears running down my cheek?) (There is pain again but I ignore it.)
The relief is so big that I tumble to my knees next to him. He's alive! I wipe away my tears (I still do not know when I started crying) and my brain slowly starts to deliver first aid instructions (Need to tend for his head wound and bring him into recovery position). (Or do I need to get him out of the plane first?)
My (sluggish) thoughts are interrupted when he stirs. (Alive!)
I cup his cheek. "John?" I hear myself say (softly).
His eyes flicker, then open (unfocused. Concussion?) He tries to focus on me and somehow that sends a piercing pain down my chest. His lips move ("Sherlock.") but he makes no sound.
"I am fine," I tell him, knowing that is what worries him the most. (I still feel pain somewhere but my brain cannot register the affected body part. But I was up and running just a minute ago and not dizzy that much so that counts as fine.)
His eyes (his wonderful big blue eyes) still fail to find a focus on me. "We're alive," he whispers (with amazement). I nod wordlessly, a lump in my throat suddenly detaining me from speaking. He gives me a little half smile, joy in his eyes. His hand reaches out to touch me but he still has not managed to focus on me and his hand misses my face by several inches. (That sends another stab of pain down my chest.) I take it (gently) and hold it against my face. He smiles again.
Then his eyes roll back into his head and he moans. In the distance, I can hear the siren of an ambulance.
Suddenly, my brain jumps into action, and I know exactly what to do: get our jackets from the overhead locker (to keep him warm), get him out of the plane, get help.
His body goes slack again, his head falling down onto my shoulder. (My loins are burning and burning, a strange kind of pain that is not pain but fear.) (Don't die on me don't die don't die!)
Then he comes to again with a little jolt. He stares at me, wide-eyed and uncomprehendingly. His mouth opens and closes again and again.
"We are fine, just fine," I chant, stroking his cheeks, letting my low voice washing over him (I know he loves that). "I will get us out of here, and then a doctor will take a look at you and you will be fine, just fine."
(I wish I would believe it myself.)
He nods, then winces in pain (concussion?). His body drops against mine, slack again.
His repeatedly losing consciousness is driving me insane and I think there are tears rolling down my face again. But there is no time to drown in pain. I lean his body (gently) against the backrest of his seat, open the overhead locker (only a little twisted) and get out our jackets and his backpack (ugly thing, blue synthetic, but containing all our papers). I wrap him into his jacket (with some effort) while he only stares at me with these damn unfocused eyes. Then I (clumsily) get him to his feet.
We stagger for a while until I find a stable position, his weight resting mostly on my hips. He remains conscious which really helps me to find a way out of the plane. Not the emergency exit, but a rather huge crack in the cabin wall. (How strange to leave a plane and have grass underneath your feet without going down the stairs.)
Outside, the horror continues. Or so I think. There are blurred figures lying on the grass, some attended by medics, some covered, hidden from view already. People are shouting, moaning, crying, rattling.
The loudest sound in my ears though is John softly groaning.
That gives me focus again. I need to get him to safety, away from the plane, and get somebody to help him.
The area seems to be flooded with helpers, and it turns out that all I have to do to get help is move another five steps away from the crash site. A young paramedic (relieved to be able to take care for someone surviving) helps me to move John into a makeshift tent on a soft nearby hill (How long since the crash is it?). When we lower him onto a stretcher, he fades out and comes to again with a jolt. His unfocused eyes -
I can no longer stand them. I have to look away.
That might have been a mistake, for now I can see the whole of the crash site. The nose of the plane is lying on its back, several yards away from the cabin. The tail of the plane is driven into the ground almost vertically. The cabin is compressed, its hull torn in several places. There is debris lying around, as well as body parts.
When my brain realises what I see, it filters out the body parts almost instantly. That is extremely annoying, so I rather look back at John, who is frowning in pain.
Looking at him feels just as bad as looking at the crash site.
I am caught in hell.
But I am alive.
For some reason, I remember our baggage. With the belly of the plane driven into he ground like that, all baggage must be lost. I cannot get my thoughts off the little stuffed clown fish we have bought for Rosie at Inverness. (She loves fish, watches that strange animated film in an endless loop whenever we allow her to watch TV. Knows more kind of fish than me.) She would have loved it but now it is pressed into the ground by 60,3 tons of steel.
The young medic brings herself to my attention again. She assures me that John is most likely to have only a concussion and that there are people who are hurt worse who will be brought to hospital first. Then she tries to examine me but I hush her away. She brings us blankets and a folding chair for me and hurries off to help the other survivors.
(Other survivors? I remember the horror of the first minutes after the crash landing, remember so many people my mind replaced by blurred figures to save me from reality. Are there really enough survivors to keep a whole medical unit busy?)
We, the injured with low priority, are left behind in the makeshift shelter, with nothing to do but stare at the wrack of our plane and wait. The sun is shining down on the crash site, and that feels just terribly wrong. Shouldn't it be dark night, or raining?
John's eyes finally focus on me. He quickly examines my face, frowns for a second (why?), then looks straight into my eyes. "We survived," he says again in amazement and squeezes my hand hard. I look at him, relieved that he is no longer drifting away from me.
"We survived," I repeat, returning the pressure to his hand, taking in the heat he is radiating, drowning in his wonderfully focused eyes. My whole body gives in all of a sudden, and I have to lean against him. Our foreheads touch, a soft reminder of the moment we became a couple. I allow myself to close my eyes for a moment, ignore the world, and only feel John's skin touch mine.
We survived.
