(no subject)
Shannon doesn’t remember climbing out of the plane. She remembers the oxygen masks dropping, she remembers the plane breaking apart midair, and she remembers the impact; but she can’t for the life of her remember how she came to be standing in the sand surrounded by burning wreckage, and most importantly, she doesn’t remember if Boone got out.
People were screaming all around her. The still-running engine to her right was screaming. She was screaming, she realized, and she really didn’t care to stop. She had to remind herself to breathe, and she paused in her screams and sobs to take in a huge, shuddering gulp of air. Smoke filled her lungs, burning and itching, making her cough. Shannon doubled over, grabbing at her knees and desperately searched the area with her eyes. So many people were dead, she realized. Her chest tightened further, making it even harder to draw in air. Boone could be one of those people. This was her fault. Boone was on the plane because of her. Dead because of her. “Boone!” She stumbled forward, she had to find him. “Damn it Boone, where the fuck are you!”
Each breath of smoke-filled air burned more then the last, a horrible familiar itch deep inside her chest. Her purse, she realized, her head swimming, she needed her purse. All other thoughts immediately rushed from her head like water as being able to breathe again took full priority. Was it in the fuselage? In the sand among countless other carry-ons that had been thrown from the plane?
People were screaming all around her. The still-running engine to her right was screaming. She was screaming, she realized, and she really didn’t care to stop. She had to remind herself to breathe, and she paused in her screams and sobs to take in a huge, shuddering gulp of air. Smoke filled her lungs, burning and itching, making her cough. Shannon doubled over, grabbing at her knees and desperately searched the area with her eyes. So many people were dead, she realized. Her chest tightened further, making it even harder to draw in air. Boone could be one of those people. This was her fault. Boone was on the plane because of her. Dead because of her. “Boone!” She stumbled forward, she had to find him. “Damn it Boone, where the fuck are you!”
Each breath of smoke-filled air burned more then the last, a horrible familiar itch deep inside her chest. Her purse, she realized, her head swimming, she needed her purse. All other thoughts immediately rushed from her head like water as being able to breathe again took full priority. Was it in the fuselage? In the sand among countless other carry-ons that had been thrown from the plane?