Buried

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I felt sweat drip off my forehead and my breathing shorten. I flexed my fingers and looked at my watch for the third time in three seconds; time was up to its old tricks again. With my eyes closed I told myself everything was going to be okay; imagined myself somewhere else but it wasn’t working. I couldn’t control this. I couldn’t stop it. It was taking over me. I was breathing in the exhaust fumes of the other humans around me, each breath making me more breathless. I held my forehead between finger and thumb. A thousand spiders crawled on my skin making me shiver. My hands felt too large for my arms, my arms too long for my body. My legs were like redwood trees stuffed into jeans. I was being buried alive by my mind; gasping for breath, scratching at the earth, but there was no way out.

I was normally a pretty good flier, a seasoned traveller. Taking off and landing seemed as commonplace to me as getting on and off a bus. But I always got an aisle seat, usually 23C, and could always get up and stretch my legs anytime I needed. But they hadn’t let me choose my seat for this one, so I was in a window seat, stuck in a corner, with no room to manoeuvre. The plane was full to bursting point; there was no way out.  The couple next to me were a sweet Spanish pair who had no idea of the turbulence in my head, while sweat poured from my brow they wittered on in Spanish. These average-sized people were giants in my eyes and were growing bigger by the second. Their huge bodies were hemming me into my tiny seat, trapping me in my economy class grave. They were torturing me while innocently enjoying the first few moments of their holiday. There was no Stockholm syndrome here; through no fault of their own, I hated them with a passion I normally reserved for Tories.

“Everything’s fine, it’s only a short flight. It’s going to be okay, it’s only a short flight.” I was mumbling to myself like a Gregorian monk and wringing my hands like Lady Macbeth, Out, I needed to get out of this damned spot. I’d never had a panic attack before but there was a first time for everything. There was no stopping it now. I was careening out of control. I could hear my heart in my ears and feel my face redden.

“I got to move! Now!” I said. My two row mates looked at me startled.
“I’m sorry,” I said, trying to make myself sound slightly less crazy. “Would you mind if we swapped seats.”

“Qué?” The husband said.

“Can we swap?” I said loudly, realising I sounded like a Brit abroad. “I don’t feel well.” I put two fingers down my throat to signify this.

This was my only chance.

They looked at each other and gabbled in Spanish.

“Por favour,” I tried to do my best puppy dog eyes. They looked up and down the plane obviously seeing if there were other options available.

“I’ll let you get out anytime you need to,” I said, but they didn’t understand me. The hope that I had was slowly evaporating. They looked liked they were going to say no, to keep me imprisoned in my own private hell. The seconds dragged. How much was there to discuss? It was a simple yes or no answer; there was not  four options, no chance to win a million, no option to phone a friend.

“Make up your bloody minds,” I mumbled.

“Sí,” the man said. I felt relief flush through my body. I could kiss him but I thought the moustache might scratch, so thought better of it.

“Gracias, gracias.” I said as we stood up and moved despite the seat belt signs being on.  Incurring the wrath of the cabin staff was the least of my worries. I sat down and put my head back and cherished my new found freedom. Only two seats, only one metre away, but the air felt fresher over here; it felt like I was running in a meadow.

I closed my eyes and listened as the rumble of the engine began to change pitch as we taxi along the runway picking up speed. Within seconds we were airborne and I felt as free as a bird.