48. Antonio
My heart stills when I spot the debris field from the helicopter.
The plane either exploded midair, or when it hit the water. Experts will know.
I want to know too. I want to know every goddamn thing there is to know about how this happened.
As the helicopter descends, I scour the ocean for any sign of life.
I watch in disbelief, as the surface is spotlighted and the divers are lowered into the icy, cavernous hole that is the Atlantic.
Reluctantly, anger leaves my soul, making room for a staggering grief, moving at warp speed as it takes up every corner, banging against the periphery and testing my humanity beyond reason.
I’m cold and numb, as I comb the violent sea for any hope.
“You’re not more powerful than I,” she taunts, the evidence of her might bobbing on the surface.
Seat cushions.
A suitcase.
Flotation devices.
Scraps of metal that made up the plane.
And thousands of objects I can’t identify from this distance.
But not a single sign of life.