He didn’t like to fly. Not because he was afraid he was going to fall from the sky or whatever. He just had this thing about being in the air for extended periods of time. And after years of dealing with it, he went to a therapist to get some pills so he wouldn’t have to deal with it. Don’t take more than two and don’t drink while you’re on them the therapist warned.
So he did the reasonable thing before boarding his flight the other day to some place irrelevant to this story: he took ten and thought of Sylvia Plath as he swallowed three shots of Vodka. Good thing, too, because his plane hit a menacing storm cell and lots of bad stuff happened to all the people inside. But he didn’t notice. He was dreaming.
The bad stuff eventually stopped happening and the plane landed wherever it was going. He was still dreaming. Somebody tried to wake him but he was still dreaming. A discussion. Then some other person tried more vigorously than the first to wake him but he was still dreaming. Another discussion. Somebody then frantically called somebody because he was still dreaming.
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