Last Moments (MH370)
by Lisa Kwan I’ll probably die. We’ll all probably die, never to get out of this alive. The sounds on the aircraft are deafening. I can hear screams, wailing, babies crying, prayers muttered in languages I don’t know, to deities and gods I have never known. A man is yelling at a distraught flight stewardess, arguing about something completely meaningless at this point. The plane is tilted somewhat downwards now; I make an effort to keep my back against the upright seat. I tighten my seatbelt, and then unintentionally allow a chuckle to escape my lips from the absurdity of it all. The plane is about to go down, and I tighten my seatbelt? How helpful. I turn to her, sitting beside me, sobbing hysterically; squeezing my hand so tight it is practically white. I turn to her, but I can only stare helplessly. What do you say, in such circumstances? What do you say, when you know there’s not going to be a tomorrow? I stroke her hand, and she hiccups, tired out. I follow the outlines...