Stranded [harry styles] ✓

1

*Ding*

Turbulence; the spiller of coffee, jostler of luggage, filler of barf bags and rattler of nerves.

I check my already fastened seat belt and grip the armrests assigned to my seat. I'm not a nervous flyer because I've never actually flown before. This is my first flight—a big-ass, long-haul from London to Kuala Lumpur and I simply just don't know what to expect. 

The plane jolts.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, the pilot has informed me that we are experiencing turbulence as a result of a nearby thunderstorm. Please do not be alarmed and remain seated with your belts fastened until further instruction. Thank you." 

Her supposed 'assurance' is more of an inaudible crackle coming through the overhead speaker, not helped by the disappearance of all the flight attendants—scarpering to take their own seats. The passenger next to me is muttering to himself and there's a baby shrieking somewhere near the back of the plane. 

The plane jolts again and we seem to bounce along in the sky as if going over speed bumps in a residential area. I can smell the vomit before I hear the rustling of the provided bags and have to reluctantly release my grip on the left armrest to pinch my nose. 

I will not be sick. 

My Aunt is meeting me at Kuala Lumpur airport. She's hosting me for the Summer, a trip I have been looking forward to ever since she moved to Malaysia when I was ten—and I refuse to greet her smelling like a sufferer of cyclic vomiting syndrome. 

The overhead crackles again.

"Can the passenger in row 32 sit down immediately!" 

Despite the potentially concerning situation, everyone automatically cranes their necks to spot the passenger in question. He's out of his seat—fumbling inside the overhead storage compartment with beads of sweat scattering his forehead. Either he's storing something incredibly valuable or he needs to reevaluate his priorities. 

"Sir, I need you to sit down this instant before you harm yourself or—"

She's cut off as the plane jolts again. My minuscule carton of water upturns on the tray and begins to ooze into my lap. I'm too shocked to respond—the cool temperature of the liquid is the only thing reminding me that this is real life and not some nightmare. There's a chorus of screaming as the man's hand luggage flies out of the overhead storage space and knocks him in the face—sending him hurtling backwards in the aisle with a bloodied nose. He hits the floor, so hard that I feel the vibration in the soles of my Converse. When I look down, I notice that he's not moving. 

Turbulence and a potentially dead body. Maybe I should be nervous after all.

Nobody moves to help him, too afraid of being yelled at or knocked out by rogue luggage. My heart is racing now and the passenger next to me is muttering faster and louder. His hands are interlinked and resting on his lap. His eyelids are closed but I can see the frantic action of his eyeballs beneath them. 

He's praying—but isn't this just turbulence?!

I try to remember the safety instructions delivered at the beginning of the flight. When do they kick in? Should we brace for impact yet? Is there going to be impact? 

"Are we crashing?" I desperately ask the couple in the seats across the aisle from mine. I don't even recognise my own voice. "Are we going to crash?!"

They stare at me—open mouthed and with slightly pearlescent skin. The female leans forward and buries her mouth in a paper bag whilst her partner just shakes his head frantically with no words to offer. 

"Please remember to remain calm. We will give further instructions if they are necessary. Do not leave your seat for the injured passenger, the crew will attend to him when it is deemed safe." The crackle speaks again but even she doesn't sound entirely convinced by the advice she's handing out and I don't feel particularly calm either. 

The plane is now shuddering as if the engine is cutting out and I swallow back a sob. This is not real, this is not real, this CANNOT be real. 

A blanket of darkness falls over the plane, leaving us in pitch black. 

"What's happening!?" I cry but it's drowned out by everyone else's pleas for help. I'm vaguely aware of the head flight attendant attempting to shout over the wailing—evidently her crackling device has lost power too. 

A ripping sound pierces through the commotion. Lightning? 

"We're falling!" Someone screeches. It's so high pitched that the hairs stand up on the back of my neck. 

But she's right. I can feel it too—the sensation of everything below you falling away from your feet, like a roller coaster, only this one isn't going to end. 

We're falling through the sky. 

We're going to make impact. 

Between the shrieking, crying and panicked shouting, there's no room to think. There's no opportunity to listen out for instructions or form a plan of action. It's chaos. I'm out of my depth here—I've never been on a plane or been in this situation. I've seen it once though—on a documentary on Channel 5. But I can't remember how the dummies survived. I only remember them being blown to pieces. 

I squeeze my eyes shut and arrange myself in the brace position—the one I've memorised since the beginning of the flight. The passenger next to me is shouting is prayers now. 

How long does it take to hit the ground?

Are we even above ground? 

We're picking up speed and we're falling faster. 

We must be near—