"Statistics" by Cavin Bryce

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The flight attendant is pointing out emergency exits as you say to your friend, “Well, where do we exit to, the sky?” and your friend responds, “It’s just for show, to make us comfortable.” This is not comforting.

                You have always felt akin to the statistics- people crushed by vending machines, stabbed by falling icicles. You tell this to your friend and they tell you to relax. Turbulence rocks the craft at three in the morning and your friend jokes, “This is it! Aaaahhhhhhh!” But it isn’t, it’s just turbulence, and you both know it. “I’m telling you it’s going to go down,” you say, shaking your head and smiling.

                Your friend sits up straight and looks over. "There are way more fatal car crashes than plane crashes. We are fine.” You laugh: "I know, I know."
                During a brief nap a right wing stabilizer is torn away. Fear instilled in fellow passengers by the bucking plane is exaggerated by an aggressive sputtering sound and several trails of thick smoke wrapping around the wings. As your eyes open the plane plummets perpendicular to the horizon. Spinning and spinning and spinning. Red alarms flash and panicked mothers strap oxygen masks to their children. The pilot says over the intercom that he’s sorry, so sorry, so so sorry. Your friends terrified eyes say, "This isn’t happening, is it?” 

                You think to yourself, I knew it, but the victory is short lived.