That was very good indeed for a random drunken twenty minute attempt!
I like the Final Destination reference, and your character's got a good sense of humour on her as well as being very believable.
In reference to your last post, yes I agree that I reckon in real life more people would be standing around screaming/in silence doing nothing, and the hero Jacks would be in the minority. But then again you never truly know how you'd react in such a situation, so maybe everyone would be falling over themselves to help!
And yes, I think it is quite difficult to come up with a character that hasn't been done a hundred times before and if you're going to spend a lot of time and invest something in them, then it's only natural that part of yourself will go into them.
Lol ah thanks though: I just don't have a lot of practice writing OCs, and for this one I pretty much imagined how I might feel after a plane crash and then exaggerated/changed/embelished etc. etc. a few things.
Oh and I do agree that you can write better - well at times - for some reason after you've had a drink...maybe it relaxes you more? I don't know! But sometimes it really can...
This is something I wrote last night, and I personally don't think it's as good as my first one - not only because I hadn't had a drink
- but because I was also trying to watch The Apprentice at the same time! Your last one was posted at night and I think the continuity - with regards to the characters still works - so just pretend that it's still crash day and I'll get onto night soon!
*****
Something's Just About to Break
What finally gets me moving is not my guilt or fear or still beating desire to be the hero of the day: no, what gets me running isn’t something from inside – if I had my way I’d still be standing still and doing nothing – but by something from the outside.
By an explosion so sudden that my self-preservation instinct kicks in before I really have time to see what exactly happened.
With no more than a glimpse of an engine spinning in a red wheel of fire and the black smoke streaming away from it, I turn on my ankle and sprint as fast as I can in the opposite direction.
Somehow I manage to jump over and dodge around and miss touching any of the debris littering the beach, but the moment I see a young man caked in blood and sand reach out his hand for me I stumble and think about stopping, and that’s when I hear the explosion behind me.
It’s terrifying, and the sound bullies out anything else in my head so that, for what could have been a few seconds or a few minutes, I’m aware of nothing else. The wave of heat expelled from it is suffocating, and only when I instinctively reach up to protect my head do I realize that I’m lying on my front, and my mouth is full of sand.
My ears are full of ringing, my eyes are full of tears and my heart is full of a drowning despair.
Despair not only for the nightmare that us innocent people are now living through, but despair that, even now, I’m trying to work out a way that makes me appear as though I’m doing something to help everyone but doesn’t actually require me to do anything.
My conscience gives me a sharp kick and, sickened with myself, I spring up onto my feet and vow to go back to help that man who I saw reaching out for me. I back track a few steps to find him, but immediately turn away again, closing my eyes and wondering if taking deep breaths would actually help, or if sucking in smoke and dirt and blood and decay will make me feel even worse.
Perhaps I should try some and see.
Perhaps I should try and actually help the next person that reaches out to me, so that they don’t then end up with a stiletto thin piece of metal impaled through both their eyes.
I start walking towards the shore, and am overcome with a sudden belief that a rescue boat is, at this very moment, rushing towards us. And that I just can’t see it because of the smoke and the water in my eyes.
I hope it saves me first.
I wipe my eyes angrily, but the tears keep coming and I hate myself for what I’m thinking. For what I’m hoping.
They stream down my face and I give up trying to stop them, not only because I’m weary beyond anything I could imagine, but because I have the ridiculous hope that they will also wash away the blackness that is inside me and expose the good that I know is in there.
The part of me that makes others glad to be in my presence, even as I sit or stand and do nothing. The part that provides safety and security and puts them instantly at ease, and makes me glow with pride and contentment because I’ve done nothing but smile and walk into a room, and I can instantly tell that they’re happy and more relaxed. More certain of themselves, more confident, more able to do the things they know they have to do.
But it seems like years since that happened, even though it’s been less than two months.
A lot can change in that time.
I finally stop crying and take a deep breath and no, not really such a big help after all: I don’t really know why people cite that as an instant cure for a feeling of panic. Yes I know that it increases the oxygen supply to your body, but as you hold this breath you’re only thinking about the reason that’s caused you to take one in the first place, and that just makes you shake even harder. And if thinking about it didn’t make you react in the negative, then why did it cause you to take such a breath to begin with?
A sudden hand on my shoulder pulls me out of my pointless internal ramble and I jump – yes, actually jump: not just a twitch or a shudder, but an actual two feet off the sand jump. Lord how pathetic.
I turn to face the hand’s owner, and see that it is a young blonde woman.
A heavily pregnant woman, clutching her stomach.
Oh bloody hell.
‘Please, can you help me?’ she asks, her voice scored with fear and pain.
‘Err, I’m not sure I’m quite the right person for that…’ I begin, feeling sick at how easily the lie comes out and at how hopeful I sound for her to believe it.
‘He told me that I was fine and that I should just sit and rest’ - I look over her shoulder and scan the background to see if there’s anyone else free to come over – ‘and after he checked me over I did, and I began – argh – I began to look through a few bags next to me, to take my mind off things. And I found this:’ She holds up a piece of tattered photocopied paper in front of me, and I have to blink smoke and grit out of my eyes several times before I can decipher it.
Oh no…
‘And then I threw up and the baby started kicking and I think I might be bleeding and I don’t know if it’s going to die or what’s going to happen or when we’re going to be saved and then I saw you were from this picture and I just hope you can help me because I really don’t know what else to do…’
She looks at me with eyes a familiar shade of hope and relief, and as I stare blankly at a copy of my ID card – Dr. Ellie Weir, Radiology – I really really really wished that I had been fired and sent home in disgrace a day earlier.
*****