EARHART.PDF
Flashing lights. It’s almost like the universe is splitting, curving into a kaleidoscope of blues, whites, and greens. It blends together like watercolor, making everything seem a little less real. Perspective sinks, slides, and twists deeper under the salad of flying patterns. Instruments scream from whatever right is to where left would accordingly be. She sees an image of a plane crashing. Instantaneously, she’s consumed by water to the neck up. Horns, flutes, pianos—All their noises weaving together a blinding confusion. A soft percussion taps and patters in the distance as the colors begin to gradually form rigidness. Everything is blurry, cold, and awful. Oxygen refuses to stretch its way through her lungs, instead forming a knife to pierce right through them. Ever so slowly, the procussion becomse louder and louder, building an intensity that would almost call for fear, every single pound defining the entire ensemble. There’s smoke flying everywhere, seeming to confuse itself with the water. Pieces of the plane scatter themselves throughout the scary, consuming blue. It all grows louder and louder and louder until—crash. All  the sounds silence themselves within the chaos and the images flash into darkness.

Her eyes open. It seems as if the colors are mixing again, but this time it’s bright whites, blues, and silvers. They were dazzling enough to bring a light warmth to her entire face. That was the only sensation she felt as the colors began to differentiate themselves. She was able to make out a baby blue ceiling, which was enough to assure her that she was laying down. The rest of her body gradually became apart of her conscience as well.. She slowly begins to recognize the existence of her arms, her torso, then her legs. They feel limp and sore as if they had been under stress for hours. Not expecting that, she flinches a bit in pain. Her face scrunches at the growingly unbearable feeling. It’s enough of a sensation for the colors to become objects of their own. She turns to her right. To her surprise, she’s on a hospital bed, which is made apparent by the greyed metal bars that aligned it. Her head turns to the left. There’s a window, welcoming all types of sunlight into the otherwise bleakly toned room. For the first time, she attempts to move her arm, which is met with an even sharper pain.

“Ouch...” she groans under her breath. She looks down to notice a huge IV wrapping around and then stabbing into her hand. Her heart begins to overwhelm itself, reminding her that somewhere behind her currently cluttered memory that she had a terrific fear of needles. She moves her free hand to reach over and unwrap the bandage covering her arm. Without even thinking twice, she yanks the tube from her arm. Colors begin to bend again as her entire body seems to shrivel in pain at the sudden jolt. It takes her a while, but she eventually forces her back up from the pillow. Strands of golden hair fall in front of her face, which may or may not have been that color due to the sunlight reflecting off of them. She tosses the white blanket off of her, which exposes her bare legs. To that, she recognizes that she’s in a blue and white polka-dotted hospital gown. At this point, she feels as if her memory would’ve jogged itself by now but she’s still lost. Where was she? Why was she in a hospital bed? Why did her body feel so sore? Her face falls into her palms as she racks her brain for answers. Unfortunately, it’s to no avail. With a sense of purposeless beginning to dawn on her, she rises her head and decides to get to moving. She scoots off the hospital bed and onto the ground. Her legs nearly double over at first, as they clearly hadn’t been used to carrying so much weight at once. Barefooted, she takes small steps across the cold, white floor and towards the door in front of her. She wraps her hands around the knob in the slowest motion, as if she were scared of what she’d see. She pulls the door back inch by inch, allowing trials of light to slither their way from underneath and through the crack she’d made. In an even slower motion, she peeks her head out to see.

“She can’t be dead.” A woman in a female voice refutes. “I made sure she’d only be tranquilized, not killed. This can’t be possible.”

“Well, it’s very possible. In fact, it’s certain. There’s no pulse. She isn’t breathing.” A masculine voice reassures with a look of annoyance on his face. “Did you seriously think that she—or that anyone—would survive being shot out of the sky?”

“She landed in the ocean, there was barely any impact.” the woman retorts. “Plus, the president gave me the instructions to. It’s not like it was a plan I calculated.”

The girl’s eyes widen. She gulps, a bit of nervousness whirling in her stomach.

“Well, what’s the cover story going to be this time? I can’t keep telling the public the same old “suicide” or “iceberg” story, especially the latter. The titanic was the last straw with that one.”

“I don’t know! Tell them she just, I don’t know—disappeared or something?” the woman replies. “All I know is that nobody can figure out about this one. You got rid of the dart in her neck, right?”

Upon hearing this, the girl instinctively moves her hand towards her neck. She feels around for a while until she hits a rough patch her skin that aches so much to a point of almost feeling numb. It was far from the worst part of this situation though. It only made her even more afraid.

“Yes, of course I did. I’m not that stupid.” The doctor folds his arms. “If you’re so concerned with people figuring out, then you better get to figuring out a headline for me to give to the press. Otherwise, you’re just as dead as she is.” He snaps.
The girl backs away from the door, her thoughts beginning to collide into nerves that trickled down her spine. She turns her head away and quickly heads towards another door in her room. She opens it with ease, hits a light switch and stares at her own reflection in the mirror. Before even noticing her own facial features, she sees a badge on her hospital gown and it reads:

“Amelia Earhart, Patient #381.”