Emily Kinney's Blog - Posts Tagged "scared"

FOUR DAYS LATER, the Hestlers traveled to the airport. Milo already had a passport, procured years ago to make moving easier, and her ticket had arrived surprisingly quickly. Her backpack and suitcase were crammed with new clothes, her mother having insisted that just because she was going to the outback didn't mean she couldn't look nice. "You are also going to want extra if any get torn or dirty," she had said.

She also had suggested, Milo agreeing wholeheartedly, that they put her radio/headphones, batteries, pens, diary, and cookbook in sealable plastic bags. "It will make it easier if security wants to search your bags," she had said. "Not to mention, you don't want anything to get damaged. I know how much you love all those things, though I'm fairly certain you'll be too busy chasing wallabies to need any of them." Milo strongly disagreed and said that was irrelevant; those objects went with her everywhere, period.

At the airport, her parents waited off to the side while her passport got scrutinized. Once it met the approval of the security personal's shrewd eyes, she was allowed to check her suitcase. Milo had made sure beforehand that her backpack was the right size to carry onto the airplane. She wanted to keep it safe with her until after the trip. Nothing must be lost, or end up in another state.

Before heading down the boarding bridge to the plane, her parents came over to say goodbye.

"I can't believe you're leaving already," her mother said, pulling Milo's scrunchie out of her hair. "I'm going to miss you. We'll be eating out a lot."

"Aw, Mom," Milo groaned, reaching for her scrunchie. "Come on! Just for today?"

"Please, Milo?" her mother asked, holding it behind her back and giving her daughter a hopeful smile. "You look so sweet with your hair down."

"I know," she said. "That's why I want it up. I believe in honest appearances."

"Oh, fine!" her mother said in exasperation, tossing the scrunchie back. "But I give you fair warning. Hot Australian boys are looking for shy, sweet girls."

"Uh-huh?" Milo said, sweeping her hair up into a ponytail. "I'll keep that one in mind, Mom," she lied. "See you later."

"Goodbye, dear," her mother said, giving her a hug and kissing her cheek.

"Bye, hon," her father said, doing the same.

"I'll see you guys in a month," Milo said, other people filing past her into the tunnel.

"Okay and don't forget, you're a Hestler," her father said proudly, beaming at her.

"Um . . . alright. Why?" she asked.

"Well . . . I don't know, hon. Just don't. It wouldn't be fair to us if you did. So don't."

"Right!" Milo mumbled, rolling her eyes at his cryptic words.

"I've always admired your father's satisfying way of answering questions," Bob the Conscience remarked. Milo snickered.

As she entered the grey wormhole, walking to the plane door, her parents called after her. Their voices echoed throughout the terminal, causing several heads to turn.

"Goodbye!"

"Bye, hon!"

"We love you!"

"We what?"

"We love her, Earnest!"

"Oh! Yes! Of course we do! We do!"

"Don't forget us!"

"If you can help it!"

"Keep out of trouble!"

"Keep out of wombat holes!"

"Don't stare at your counselor's butt!"

And just as the door was closing, her father bellowed, "And if he looks at yours slug him!"

"Oy!" Milo moaned, her face burning.

A nearby flight attendant gave her a wan smile, but tactfully didn't say anything.

Milo determinedly tried to forget what her parents had just shouted all over the airport, and found her seat. She didn't put her backpack in the overhead. Instead, she sat down and hugged it tightly, attempting to leech out some comfort from it.

"We're really doing it," she whispered excitedly, glancing out the window at the grey stretch of runway. "We're by ourselves on a plane, going to camp. It's really happening."

"Are you talking to me or your backpack?" Bob the Conscience inquired.

"I don't even know," Milo admitted.

The instructions for such-and-such things came while the plane roared and started to move, but she didn't pay much attention. She had been on airplanes plenty of times before. She knew everything there was to know. While the flight attendants showed everyone how to buckle the seatbelts, Milo gazed up at the white tufts of clouds in the vibrant blue sky, knowing they were about to get significantly larger.

The rest of what happened was regular. The plane sped up and took off, momentarily pressing the passengers to the back of their seats. Milo worked her jaw in circles to get her hearing back once they leveled out. The seatbelt sign eventually turned off, and people began the perpetual shuffling back and forth to the bathroom.

Milo spent the rest of the morning listening to her radio and writing in her diary. When they served lunch, she ate an egg salad sandwich with lettuce and tomatoes. She then recorded the recipe in her cookbook, deciding that the bread had been some sort of sourdough. She had recently come up with a title for her cookbook, writing on the cover in big swirly letters: Milo's Cookbook of Plagiary. This is actually a very appropriate title, if you mull it over. Milo adored it.

At two o'clock the plane hit an unusual amount of air pockets, sending drinks, food, items, and people's stomachs everywhere. As the plane was being cleaned, the flight attendants apologizing profusely, several important looking men dashed by Milo's seat and entered the cockpit. The plane didn't settle down for a while, outside or in. When the turbulence finally stopped, they were able to fully clean up. All the spraying and wiping was for naught, though, because there came suddenly a horrid bump. This was followed by an enormous bang.

Everybody inside the plane, all ordinary folks and high strung, flew into a terrified frenzy. Milo, curled up into a ball on her seat, stared unblinkingly at all the yelling, pointing, and pushing. At last the captain himself had to emerge and calm the passengers down.

He composedly explained to them that it was only a small problem and there was nothing to worry about. This seemed to be accepted willingly enough, and everyone sat back down. But even so, Milo felt uneasy. She put all her things away in the bags, making sure each one was sealed. She then hugged her backpack for an hour, telling herself that everything was fine. Another hour later, she was fast asleep.

It's a funny thing, sleep. Deprived of it, you are cranky, tired, and forgetful. Therefore, people ought to get plenty of it. But sleep has one unfortunate stipulation: You must close your eyes, removing yourself from reality, in order to slowly fall into the cycle of sleep that makes you dream. And when you dream, you are in another world, even though you are still in this world, and are oblivious to what is going on around you.

It is therefore good to have an alarm clock, or a reliable mother, to wake you up in the morning. If you didn't, you wouldn't know that morning had come at all, and might miss the bus and have to walk to school. So, even though sleep is usually beneficial and on our side, sometimes it isn't.

It certainly wasn't on Milo's side while she was on the plane. It prevented her from participating in a very important event, thereby putting her life in danger. Nobody bothered to be a reliable mother and wake her up. She what woke her was a loud, blaring alarm. It had been going off for some time, but she had been sleeping deeply, in a very involved dream, and didn't hear it until then. She also woke up because the plane happened to be shifting and rocking violently.

Blearily, she sat up in her seat and looked around, everything dark and blurry at first. Nobody else was with her. Adrenaline shot through her, immediately making her wide awake and alert. Clutching her seat's headrest, she stood up and looked behind her, then in front of her.

The plane was completely empty except for her. Masks were dangling from strings from the ceiling, bopping and dancing wildly as the plane shook. Luggage had been thrown aside and abandoned in the aisle, the arms of seats broken and swinging limply. Milo stared around frantically in confusion, sweat erupting all over her face and neck. A red light was flashing languidly, illuminating the space in an unnerving scarlet glow before fading to darkness. It revealed vacated cushions, rows and rows of them, not a soul to be seen.

Normally any other human being would have panicked, and Milo wasn't looking to be different. She panicked, but only for about two minutes, because when a plane is twisting violently in the air, people have to concentrate on balance more than panicking.

Milo steadied herself and grabbed one of the masks, trying to calm down. She held it to her nose and mouth, taking huge breaths. The jerking and downward, falling motion prevented her from inhaling too long, however. She pushed the mask away, slung on her backpack, and shakily walked into the center aisle.

"Hello?!" she called out, just in case someone was hiding.

There was no answer.

"Hellooo??!" she yelled, taking a wide stance to keep from falling over. "Is aaanybodyyy here?!!"

Once again, no answer came.

"Please!!" she cried miserably.

She looked around frantically, squinting in the meager, red light. She was entirely, one hundred percent alone.

"Oh!" she groaned, clutching her stomach as the plane lurched horribly.

She began to make her way to the back, though the floor was slanting. She caught a glimpse out a window then quickly looked away, gulping. An engine had exploded, and fire was leisurely engulfing the aircraft.

Milo whimpered for a second, then screamed and started to run. She didn't stop until she got to the end of the plane. To her surprise, all the classified, locked doors were flown open, and there was a huge emergency exit open in the back. Night air rushed in at her, chilling her to the bone. She had no idea how long ago she had fallen asleep. She had no idea what time it was. She didn't care. Inching towards the hole, making sure not to get too close, Milo peered out. Stars were sailing by, the moon full and off to the right. It was too dark to see what was below her, though.

The room she was in had been fortified with different supplies for escape, such as instant inflatable rafts, thousands of parachutes, maps, transmitters, first-aid kits and food kits. All the rafts were gone, as well as the kits and transmitters, but there was one more parachute left. Milo crawled over to it and unhooked it from the wall. She shifted her backpack so that it was on her front, and then fastened the parachute to her back.

Suddenly there was an enormous explosion on the left side of the plane that Milo deciphered as the other engine blowing up. It told her that she'd better move it. She clasped her backpack, screwed her eyelids shut, ran, and took a daring leap.

Air whizzed past her, filling her ears with a hollow roar, but she still was able to make out a furious grinding sound. Looking up, she could see underneath the plane and that one of the compartments had broken open.

Suitcases came spilling out, dropping as fast as Milo. A familiar one, perhaps inexplicably able to sense its owner's presence, collided with her head. Blood trickled down her face, getting in her eyes and blinding her slightly. A searing pain raced across her forehead, making her gasp.

Remembering suddenly that she had to open her parachute, she groped behind her for the string that released it. She gripped it and tugged, but it nothing happened. She pulled harder. Still nothing. She yanked with whatever strength she had left and finally heard a click. Cloth came billowing out. The parachute snapped open and caught air, stopping Milo with a jerk.

Her legs swinging loosely below her, she tried to catch her breath, the parachute straps digging into her armpits. At least she was no longer plummeting towards the ground, which was still shrouded in darkness. Yet, she didn't seem to be drifting either. Milo peered upward through the blood and night, trying to figure out why she was still falling rather fast. Her vision hazy, she could just make out a squarish lump amid the stars. She made a strangled noise when she realized that it was the suitcase that had crashed into her head. It was tangled up in the strings of the parachute.

This didn't help her situation very much, but it also didn't hinder it completely. At least she was slowing down a little bit. A good thing too, for a few moments later her legs hit water. Coldness enveloped her as she went under, her body smarting from the impact. Instinctively she began to kick, searching for the surface. Her head suddenly met air, and she pushed hair out of her face.

As she spat water out of her mouth, she noticed it was sicken - ingly salty. The ocean. She was in the ocean! Salty water splashed into her mouth and seeped into her injury, making her wince. But she didn't have time to fuss about it. The parachute, once her savior, was now filling with water, dragging her down. She detached the belt quickly, letting it slide off her shoulders and sink into the briny depths. Her head was throbbing, making everything pulse blurrily. She worked her arms and legs back and forth, treading water and snorting it out of her nose.

The suitcase floated up, bumping into her fingers. She lunged for it, gripping its handle. She flung her backpack upon it, and floated for a minute, pulling herself together. Gingerly, she touched her forehead, igniting pain. Milo sobbed and whipped her hand away. Tilting her face towards the sky, she saw the plane, all ablaze, barreling downward. She looked to where it was headed and, to her absolute shock and relief, saw an island.

From where she floated, it didn't look extremely big, but at the same time exactly tiny. She couldn't make out any details, but it was solid land and that's what mattered.

As the throbbing increased and her vision got fuzzier, she began to kick her way towards it. Already exhausted and sore, she began to pant. She checked her course every now and then, and soon saw the plane crash down on the other side of the island, creating a mushroom shaped explosion. It surged into the sky and was followed by a deafening boom.

Breathing raspily and heavily, Milo tried to increase her speed. Not only did her head hurt, but her stomach and jaw too. She wished she could throw-up; maybe she had swallowed too much sea juice, or maybe it was panic. But she couldn't stop. In the back of her mind, Milo didn't doubt that she was about to fall unconscious, and she wanted to be on dry land when that occurred.

More blood oozed from her head into her eyes, clogging her nose with a metallic stench. She tried to blink it away, but only suc - ceeded in making it worse. The only good thing in the whole messy ordeal was that the tide was pushing at her, making it easier to move. For what seemed like hours, she kicked away in the water, which had numbed her long ago. On all sides of her, suit cases bobbed and floated aimlessly, headed in the same direction. Now and then she had to pause to push one aside. Nothing was going to get in her way. The island was her goal. Nothing else mattered to her at that moment except getting to that island.

She mumbled dumbly to herself, "Must keep going. Must keep going. Gotta get there! Just gotta."

As the island got closer, her legs got stiff and lazy, until at last she couldn't even move them. Suddenly the water changed climates. It was gradually growing warmer, but that didn't reinvigorate Milo any; she was still too tired to kick. Her consciousness was slowly ebbing away, the lapping sound of the water getting fainter and fainter.

She laid her head down on the suitcase, letting the tide carry her the rest of the way. The shore was growing closer. It looked very foggy and red and was still far off, but she could see it.

"I'll get there," she thought weakly.

She had to. Just had to. She would. She had to. Had - to. Just . . . had . . . to. Just - had . . . to. Just . . . had - to. Just had . . .
The Island of Lote