12B

Tom Hanks. I cannot stop thinking about Tom Hanks. I used to pay for an app that would play ocean waves crashing just to fall asleep, God, I’d kill to never hear another wave crash again.

She watches the embers of her makeshift fire slowly fade away.

Tom Hanks. C’mon is he really that nice? My toes are so sunburnt. I didn’t know your toes could get sunburnt.

She grabs a hundred dollar bill from a suitcase that once totaled twenty thousand dollars.

Tom Hanks. Did he ever get off the island? I wish I had paid more attention. Did he make a raft? All I know is how to barely make enough money to pay my rent.

She crumples the bill and throws it into the fire. It crackles. She fights back her tears.

I used to work an eight hour shift and sometimes only walk with $100. Now it’s just kindling.

She fidgets with a locket hanging from her sunburnt neck, opens it and sees a photo of her mom. Her throat goes dry. She fights back her tears. She fails.

I’m going to die alone here.

What’s leftover of the plane’s propeller catches the breeze of the ocean air. Rust covers the hood of the small excursion plane. Various suitcases and passenger cargo peek out from the soft white sand as if they were part of an archaeological dig but eerily just to seem to look like headstones.

I think it’s my fourth time going through the wreckage. Sometimes I find something good, other times … well, I found a Fedora. I bet he was a jazz singer. He probably lived in New Orleans with his big hands. He probably felt so suave wearing his hat, playing his saxophone or am I giving this forty year old man wearing a fedora too much credit?

She stares at the plane. A Cessna 172. The main cabin door completely ripped off, probably at the bottom of the ocean by now. In the past, she’s resisted going inside, afraid to relive the trauma of what happened. It’s always felt too painful, even masochistic.

But I don’t feel anything anymore.

So she enters the plane.

...

12B. My seat. I can remember the way I felt sitting in this chair, about to take off. I can almost feel the way my ticket felt kissing my fingertips --- the weight of the seat belt hitting my hips --- the ghostly echoes of the passengers murmuring.

Man, if I close my eyes, I am back. Back to … back to … what’s that feeling again? Excitement? No. Possibility? But sitting here in 12B, I honestly feel nothing.

Her heel kicks something prodding out from under her seat. She reaches down. She pulls out a small black book.

A journal? I bet this belonged to a beautiful older woman. She journaled daily, she wrote poetry, she was alone but not lonely.

She hesitates opening up the first page, respecting the privacy of a journal. She pauses, weighing out the morality of her actions.

But she’s dead.

With the journal in hand, she heads back to the beach. The sun is almost gone. She collapses onto herself with a thud. She opens the journal in the middle and begins to read before it gets dark again.

The handwriting feels familiar. Beautiful cursive covers the ivory pages. The round corners of the moleskine feel smooth to the touch.

She reads:

“So I rot. So I am angry. So I am stuck in this cycle of waking up to another day and begging God to answer ‘what’s the point?’ I feel my skin wrinkle and my feet hit the ground heavier. I keep waiting for life to feel less scary or to stop hurting but it doesn’t and I am mad. It’s unfair that the greatest amount of joy and the purest feeling of hope is loving someone. But I am robbed of that. You’re gone. Sometimes I just need to be reminded I am not alone in my loneliness.”

The words comfort her and for the first time she smiles.

I think Tom Hanks got off the island.