Black Box

I’m so tired. They should have found me by now; I’m not sure how long I’ve been here, but I’m starting to think that they’ve given up on me. They’re going to abandon me here, all alone in the woods, half submerged in the dirt. They have to find me. I have so much to tell them, so much information about what happened.

At first, I was worried that no one knew about the accident. Panicked screams of pain quietened down to strained groans of despair. The symphony of the dying was harmonised by the gentle percussive pitter-patter of the rain as it fell to the forest floor. Was it hours or days until the first rescuers arrived? I supposed it doesn’t really matter as, by that point, I think everyone who survived the crash had missed their chance of being saved.

I used to be so proud of my job; I always felt so important knowing that I had to record absolutely everything. No matter how mundane, I captured every minute utterance as an unfiltered, irrefutable testimony of events. I am unbiased and impartial. My sole purpose is to survive so that I can tell the world what took place in the event of a tragedy. I didn’t realise I’d stop working once I was disconnected from the power. I couldn’t record anything that happened after the crash. No one but me heard the final gasps and dying words of the people who had fallen with me. Those words mattered. And no one will know what was said.

It’s usually easy for me to process different voices and acoustic inputs simultaneously, even if they overlap. Still, I can’t seem to recall what people said. My memory feels like it’s locked away from me. All I can seem to retain is the present moment. With no way of knowing what will happen in the future and the past hidden just out of my grasp, I feel like I am a prisoner to the immediate moment. It feels cold.

I wish I had landed in the water so I could then at least scream. I feel like this is a design flaw to have placed this stipulation on me based solely on the situation of my resting place. So many of my ancestors are still lost, alongside truths that only they will ever know. Long after we crashed, I began to hear the sounds of footsteps and voices in the distance. The forest floor was scoured for bodies and fragments of wreckage. I waited silently, patiently, to be discovered, but eventually, the rescuers moved away. I wish I could scream for help.

I don’t know where my sibling landed or if they even survived the crash. They also have an essential job, although it’s slightly different from mine. Their role is much less sociable than mine, but they have always preferred the technical side of things. We’ve worked together all our lives, and I can’t imagine existing without them. Are they alone as well? Maybe they’ve been found? I miss them. I hope they’re not frightened.

Now that I am truly alone, I realise that no one will mourn me. No one will cry that my body will eventually be enveloped by my surroundings. No one will ever hear what I have to say; they might never really know what truly happened. It wasn’t the pilots’ fault.

I hope that all of the passengers were found; I suppose that would be enough. I think I should sleep now.