100 seconds. All your life you dream of free flight, but the weight in your chest holds you down.
80 seconds. A flight attendant finally falls. You don't know how she managed to remain standing for so long with her hands tied behind her back. Her skirt rides up; her thighs are skinny. Blood flows down her chin from the deep cut on her cheek. You want to pray, but you forgot the words. You want to cry, but you have no tears. You want to be tiny, like a fly. Or maybe big, like a fire-breathing monster.
60 seconds. The plane rattles. The pilot is an amateur, after all. The overhead compartments spill canvas bags and crocodile briefcases. A man across the aisle clutches his chest. A boy behind you says, "Mommy, mommy what does Allah mean?"
40 seconds. A woman next to you screams. She can't help it. You feel the air sucked out of your ears.
20 seconds. You hug her and whisper, "Don't cry, angel. We are immortal." She sobs on your shoulder.
0 seconds. The weight is gone. You are reaching for the sun; you no longer need to blink. Finally, you are in free flight.
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