The Flight

Optional Playlist:

B.o.B. : Airplanes

The Crystals: He Hit Me (And It Felt Like A Kiss)

Your jeans stick to the back seat of the car. Your legs are weighted with fresh blood. It surges as your veins unwind. He pulls you towards the open door. His nails cut like diamonds. Perfect edges slice hard and deep into your paper-thin forearm. Your eyes squeeze tight, lashes interlaced like fine filigree. The ocean surf drips, sandy and soft, from the tip of your lashes.

Your bare toes drag across black asphalt. It rips at the tops of your feet. It bites like small razor blades. The cuts glitter with the touch of a setting sun.

Your hot breath pools against the satin cloth. It is wrapped tightly around your head. The chill of the afternoon air pushes violently inward. You count seconds. The tips of your teeth sever the curve of your top lip. You hold your breath. A molten, burning bubbles through your lungs. The lava churns and chokes.

Your skin, sticky with venom oozes under his nails. You feel his body rattle with a deep cough. He holds you closer. He inhales. His lungs scratch like sand paper. Your body smells sickeningly sweet and heavy. Your pale skin is flush. It radiates like a carcinogen.

The sharp click of the Cessna door sends a tremor down the nape of your neck. He presses dry, ravine lips into the writhing skin. The door falls open. The check is complete. The plane stands hollow and ready.

His thumbs are set like cement. They press deep into the small of your back. They push you up and into another cramped back seat. You scatter like marbles from a broken vase. You collapse into the ricketing plane.

His black, silken eyes peel back your skin. It unfolds easy, like the petals of a rose blossom. He sees the shattered veins pooling, violent and blue. He sees sharp, glistening bones. They twist and bend, strained by searing bonds. They edge deeper into the tendons of your wrist. Tiny droplets of rust, red bead down your forearms.

His movements are stiff. His wide hand spreads across the small of your back. His hold is cavernous. His voice cracks like shattering glass. The muffled tension aches in the back of your ears. His deep breathing creaks across the hollow space between you.

“They’ll still love you,” flecks of warm spit scatter across your exposed shoulder.

He steps upward. He slides into the pilot seat. The Bose headset encases his ears.

The door latch grinds down. It seals with a pop.

Long, rigid fingers reach towards the panel. A sticky, brown oozes from under his nails. He turns his master switch on. He sets his mixture to full rich. He opens the throttle slightly, and turns his magnetos to start. The engine comes to life.

He turns on his nav/comms. He sets the frequency to 134.65. A light stain seeps across the dials. He twists them to 7500 on his transponder.

Your tongue laps at the split of your lips. This is for the best, swirls with the iron under your breath.

The Cessna begins to taxi.

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5 thoughts on “The Flight

  1. I’ve never had the nerve to write in second person. I always feel like I’m telling readers who they are, but this piece certainly brings immediacy into its language. Risk vs reward, I guess; well done. Thanks for reading my story, Commerce; I hope to see you around my own blog at Words from K. Alan.

  2. Makes for riveting reading, from start to finish. Also – this is kinda unrelated to the post, but I really like your blog layout. And three cheers for 60s girl groups!

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