HOME WHILE SICK

It was a curious apprehension that drove me out of my native land, and it was the same apprehension, along with a pitiful strap of cloth for a seatbelt, that kept me in this seat. No matter how long I meditated on them, the causes of this worry remained untellable, melting away into the wispy clouds I saw out of a small, round-cornered square window, and disappearing faintly, breathlessly, until they and the clouds were like a shirt with a patch sewn into it so long ago the embellishment had faded into normality⁠. A puzzle piece that should have always been there.

I could go down the easy path and say it was because my homeland was too cold for me, with its dirty snow that froze both the tips of the fingers and the heart. Nothing more to it. I simply wished to bask in the spilling sunlight of a foreign country—to feel, for the first time in months, the soft green grass of rolling hills untainted by Jack Frost’s breath, the hot beach sand branding my feet with warm kisses and the humid wind of summer days where everything and nothing happened all at once.

But this would mean lying to myself. I had to admit the loneliness I felt where I come from was penetrating, much more than the cold could ever be. Perhaps what I really sought was companionship, a place where people smiled at everyone they saw, where I could free myself from the shackles of stiff social niceties and side-eyed apathy that bind everyone else back home; where I could have a conversation without immediately feeling alien.

All this thinking wore me out, so I went to sleep. That was twelve hours ago. Strange—I thought a flight from home to here took six hours. I looked out of my window. There wasn’t a sliver of land underneath us.

“Excuse me,” I said to a passing flight attendant, “do you know when this flight’s going to land?”

“Flights never truly land,” she replied before walking away.

What a useless answer, all it did was conjure up more questions. But for all its futility, it was of some use to this narration.

You must be wondering what someone who replied so oddly looked like. And to satisfy this query (for I am a much better answer-giver than that flight attendant), I will now sketch out a description of her. She was a plain-faced lady, peppered with the slight attractiveness all flight attendants have, whose slender body was wrapped in a red uniform with only a white shirt providing contrast. I had the feeling she must have passed by my seat a while ago with the intention of telling me something, but that might be because they all look the same. I wonder how the pilots tell them apart.

After many wasted minutes that became grey-haired and bent as they aged into hours, I caught the attention of an approaching flight attendant to ask the question again. When she came closer, I realised it was the same one.

“I hope you don’t mind me asking,” she replied, “but why does that matter? Must a flight land? Flying and landing are two totally different things.”

Goddammit! I didn't know how I had the patience to not shout at her. I went back to looking out of the window, observing the sky like it was a picture in a gallery before I felt a sharp, corrosive pang in my stomach.

“Do you know if there's any food coming?” I asked the flight attendant, who somehow always passed by whenever I needed her.

“I'll get back to you on that,” she said. A normal answer! I almost cried.

Half an hour passed. She walked by my spot again and I asked her about getting back to me.

“Oh, right. You'd rather not know.”

At this stage, I was numb to it. By her walking sourly away, I guessed she was hoping for a thank you instead of a straight-faced stare.

While half-reading some brainless magazine I’d pulled from the back pocket of the seat opposite mine, I was aware of a hazy figure floating in the corner of my eye. It seemed to be pushing something, coming closer and closer until it passed out of my peripheral vision and materialised beside my seat.

“Here’s your food.”

I must have looked like a fish as I stared at her with mouth agape, unable to move my arm to receive the small box she handed to me. It was a different flight attendant. She was touched by the same mild beauty, but the blonde of the previous flight attendant had been replaced by the brunette of this one, and her face was firmer.

Placing the box on my tray, I opened it with the wild fervour of a hyena sinking its teeth into an antelope’s juicy flesh. I was sure one of the bugs crawling around on the greenish lasagna was gawking at me while I searched for an edible spot uncolonised by patches of hairy mould. Overcome by the evil stench that wafted from this corpse of a meal, I closed the container and let my hunger sink into the depths of my stomach for its quiet, pathetic death.

“Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking…” said a crackly distant voice.

If it weren't for this seatbelt and the low ceiling, I would’ve jumped. Finally, someone with an ounce of reason around here! I awaited his next words like nothing I had ever anticipated before.

“On behalf of our airline, the flight crew would like to welcome you to the sea. We will not be arriving at the gate, as we have discovered that the real fun of flying isn’t reaching your destination, but the uncertainty over whether you live or die. You’ll certainly die, since we’ll be in the sky for days on end until our fuel runs out, but the wait before that—it’s the best we can offer, but I promise it’ll be just as fun. Please remain in your seats with your seatbelt securely fastened until the aircraft inevitably plunges into water. Please check around you to ensure you have all your belongings before we sink; although there’s little point in this, we understand it would make everything more comfortable for you, and your comfort is our priority! The outside air is a pleasant twenty-three degrees with a light wind coming from the north. We hope you have a pleasant flight. Although it is unfortunate you can’t consider us for any future air travel needs, we are pleased you chose to fly with us today and wish you a good rest of the day.”

It was a curious apprehension that drove me out of my native land, and it was the same apprehension that now drove me to wish I was still in it.