Lassoed hands held tightly behind my back as my lungs collapsed. The oxygen mask is there, dangling, swinging slowly right in-front of me. The plane is nosediving and yet every passenger is seated, gazing outside the window. The pilot? They’re on cruise control.
The ping is proper, elaborate, inquisitive, and already putting my mind in between bombs and fireworks. She inquires as if I’m not familiar with our house of mirrors, our false exits, our labyrinths meant to tire.
I let it settle.
No signal. No movement.
Quietly setting aside stewardship in favor of performative ignorance.
The pilot knows the plane is nosediving. Cruise control is on.
I’m simply the flight attendant with the wrong pre-flight announcements.
