The flight attendant left the cockpit door open, what I saw did little to alleviate my fears. I see the pilot take another swig from his metal flask. He turns and--realizing the door is open--glares at me; hurriedly, he slams the tiny door to the cockpit.
I reach into pocket for another Xanax; I need to forget what I just saw, forget why I'm even on this flight. The funeral is tomorrow. Tomorrow I bury my best friend and lover, the only man who could make me smile. I haven't slept, ate, or smiled since I received the phone call. As my thoughts begin to wander, as my grief begins to well up, the plane lurches violently and nosedives towards the ground.
He had always told me there was no reason to be afraid of flying. As the plane makes it's rapid descent, a powerful peace envelops me.
"You'll always land at your destination, Lyndsey," he said.
He was right.
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