Boone Carlyle (__boone) wrote,
Boone Carlyle

The beginning of the END.

The air was hot and thick, choking at his throat. Lungs ache and oxygen couldn't break through. A gasp of air is taken but it couldn't fill his chest --- overbarren by smoke. Rolling over to his knees he digs every digit into the sand. Face pressed into the beach, gasping, gagging --- finally catching a breath. Azure oculars opening, the blazing sun scorching his back, catching their first realization of the ground. Sand. His hands are bruised and bloody. His head is spinning and body is aching. He slowly regains awareness --- eyes active, ears attentive. And now the sound is deafening. The shrieking noise of an active machine, piercing through his ear drums. A part of the plane --- an important part; the engine, embedded into the sand; viciously hollowing and sucking nearby debris into it's mouth; thirsty for more flight.

The sun is merciless; blistering against his skin. Confusion swirling in his eyes; trying to remember the last thing that happened. Nothing. No recollection; no memory. There's blood on his shirt; his head is pounding. He winces in pain at the smallest movement. Then, recognition of where he is begins to sufface his face. The sand is sticky on his palms, stinging his open wounds and clinging to his bruised skin. The mechanical noise drifting into the background --- screams are more prominent; or maybe more terrifying that they grab his attention. Screams of help; pain, fear. Chaos stretching across the coast line -- paradise blossoming into a terrifying, horror flick.

It was usually a nightmare, so vivid, that it jolted him from his sleep. Haunting his subconscious, behind his eyes even through the daytime. Each time more real than the last. Impossiable to tell if it was a dream, or he was reliving the same nightmare all over again. It replayed through his mind on a constant loop; no stop button; no escape. These scenes were all to common for one of the 48 survivors of Oceanic Flight 815.

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