‘You nervous dear?’
Sat next to Rio was an American lady. She looked to be in her 70’s, but her exact age had been externally distored by a Beverly Hills surgeon. Whereas her neck was shrivelled like a prune, her face was perfectly smooth, looking like it was being stretched by a thousand Lilliputians.
I’d never get plastic surgery, sod that.
The woman was elegant, her attire more suited to a first-class, rather than economy passenger.
Why can’t I be in first-class?
Her sleek, well fitted, black suit he guessed to be Chanel, and the womans shiny Rolex was certainly not one you’d pick up in Thai flea market.
Underneath her perfume was a hint of lemon sherbet. The sweet, sickly aroma reminded him of his beloved grandmother. How he wished to tell her that he was sorry.
‘Don’t worry, everybody’s got a little fear of flying.’ Her accent was like that of Dolly Parton, he half expected her to finish the sentence by shouting, ‘Yee harr,’ before slapping her thigh.
‘It certainly is.’
I hope she doesn’t talk the whole journey.
‘My granddaughter Taylor gets into a terrible state everytime she travels on a plane. You sure you’re ok sugar?’
The old lady was mistaken, his anguish had nothing to do with flying, it was owned by something far more sinister.
She placed a hand onto his arm, it was clammy.
‘I’m fine,’ he lied.
He was anything but fine. His whole existence was about to be twisted into the realms of no return. The brakes of life had been cut, he was now hurtling towards a wall at 100 miles per hour.
He turned his head, stared out of the window and began to cry.
Young Writes 