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Authors: Michaelbrent Collings
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camera, she would no doubt be busily annoying her fellow first class passengers by taking snapshots of everything from the elegant hostesses to the bald pate that was the only thing visible over the top of the high-backed seat in front of hers.
This was an adventure. She wanted to enjoy it, the only adventure she’d ever really had.
No, that wasn’t true.
For a moment the dull roar of the plane’s jet engines became small explosions. Gunshots. The hostess continued in front of her, waving with a too-wide smile at the emergency exits, but Fran no longer saw her. For a moment, for one terrible moment, she saw her husband’s face. The shock as the strangers pushed into their house, screaming and raving.
The police had said the men must have been high on something, judging by their actions. Probably PCP, speed.
But Fran had seen their eyes. There were no drugs coursing through the strangers’ veins. Insanity, perhaps, but no drugs.
Evil, certainly, but no drugs.
Purpose, but no drugs.
Fran did not sleep well for months after that night, terrified that they would return; that the dead would rise up and find her again. Because they had been looking for her, of that she was certain. The cops smiled and nodded and said they would look into it, but she knew that they would not do so. To them, the case was an open-and-shut one that began and ended in five minutes in a small home in Los Angeles. They cared little that those five minutes had meant the end of everything to Fran.
That was why she was leaving now. After all this time, she had finally found the courage to admit what she had known since that night. Her life in Los Angeles had ended. She was dead there, and her only chance at resurrection lay in leaving the place where her heart had stopped beating.
Fran had never left Los Angeles in her life. Had never had any aspirations other than happiness with her husband, working hard at his side to build a good life and, later, a good family.
She had the good life. Not for very long, but long enough. She was grateful. God gave, God took away. Fran had almost a full year with Nathan, and when he died, she went a little crazy for a time. But then she snapped back, as determined as ever to take life, wrestle it to the ground, and squeeze every last drop of happiness out of it.
But she couldn't do it in Los Angeles. She had to leave. She had to escape into real life again.
"Are you all right?"
Fran snapped out of her memories. The gunshots ringing in her brain turned back into the sound of the jet, winding to a higher pitch as the pilot began to accelerate.
A flight attendant stood over Fran, a look of concern on her face. "Ma’am, are you all right?"
Fran looked down, and realized that the pressure of her memories had caused her to clutch the arm rests of the chair hard enough to crumple the leather.
Fran relaxed her grip on the seat.
"I’m fine, thanks."
The hostess, whose name badge read Ray-Lynn, peered into Fran’s eyes for one last moment, then hurried to the fold out seats where she would strap herself in during the rapidly approaching takeoff.
Fran closed her eyes, once again pushing the memories back. Enjoy now, she thought. Tomorrow’s beyond your reach, and yesterday can’t be helped, so just enjoy now.
The plane took off. Fran’s stomach clenched as she suddenly became heavier. Her eardrums filled and then popped as her body tried to compensate with the pressure changes. The plane slowly rolled to its left side, a lazy turn that seemed to take hours before the plane righted itself and entered the flight path that would take the commuters to Denver, Colorado.
Last stop, Loston.
Loston, where Fran’s cousin waited. Where a new life waited.
She smiled again, and looked around the cabin. Most of the other passengers took no note of her, but one of them, a little boy not more than ten years old, caught her eye. He
This was an adventure. She wanted to enjoy it, the only adventure she’d ever really had.
No, that wasn’t true.
For a moment the dull roar of the plane’s jet engines became small explosions. Gunshots. The hostess continued in front of her, waving with a too-wide smile at the emergency exits, but Fran no longer saw her. For a moment, for one terrible moment, she saw her husband’s face. The shock as the strangers pushed into their house, screaming and raving.
The police had said the men must have been high on something, judging by their actions. Probably PCP, speed.
But Fran had seen their eyes. There were no drugs coursing through the strangers’ veins. Insanity, perhaps, but no drugs.
Evil, certainly, but no drugs.
Purpose, but no drugs.
Fran did not sleep well for months after that night, terrified that they would return; that the dead would rise up and find her again. Because they had been looking for her, of that she was certain. The cops smiled and nodded and said they would look into it, but she knew that they would not do so. To them, the case was an open-and-shut one that began and ended in five minutes in a small home in Los Angeles. They cared little that those five minutes had meant the end of everything to Fran.
That was why she was leaving now. After all this time, she had finally found the courage to admit what she had known since that night. Her life in Los Angeles had ended. She was dead there, and her only chance at resurrection lay in leaving the place where her heart had stopped beating.
Fran had never left Los Angeles in her life. Had never had any aspirations other than happiness with her husband, working hard at his side to build a good life and, later, a good family.
She had the good life. Not for very long, but long enough. She was grateful. God gave, God took away. Fran had almost a full year with Nathan, and when he died, she went a little crazy for a time. But then she snapped back, as determined as ever to take life, wrestle it to the ground, and squeeze every last drop of happiness out of it.
But she couldn't do it in Los Angeles. She had to leave. She had to escape into real life again.
"Are you all right?"
Fran snapped out of her memories. The gunshots ringing in her brain turned back into the sound of the jet, winding to a higher pitch as the pilot began to accelerate.
A flight attendant stood over Fran, a look of concern on her face. "Ma’am, are you all right?"
Fran looked down, and realized that the pressure of her memories had caused her to clutch the arm rests of the chair hard enough to crumple the leather.
Fran relaxed her grip on the seat.
"I’m fine, thanks."
The hostess, whose name badge read Ray-Lynn, peered into Fran’s eyes for one last moment, then hurried to the fold out seats where she would strap herself in during the rapidly approaching takeoff.
Fran closed her eyes, once again pushing the memories back. Enjoy now, she thought. Tomorrow’s beyond your reach, and yesterday can’t be helped, so just enjoy now.
The plane took off. Fran’s stomach clenched as she suddenly became heavier. Her eardrums filled and then popped as her body tried to compensate with the pressure changes. The plane slowly rolled to its left side, a lazy turn that seemed to take hours before the plane righted itself and entered the flight path that would take the commuters to Denver, Colorado.
Last stop, Loston.
Loston, where Fran’s cousin waited. Where a new life waited.
She smiled again, and looked around the cabin. Most of the other passengers took no note of her, but one of them, a little boy not more than ten years old, caught her eye. He
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