The summer of 1995. The one thing I would love to forget. It was a time of fear, a time of grief and most importantly a time of death. We were so young, so foolish. We didn't know any better. We thought it would an amazing holiday to Greece. Not once did we think it would be our death bed.
I would like to think I was lucky to make it out alive. To survive such a horrible thing that killed off almost everyone on the flight. That, however, isn't the case. I mean who would feel lucky to see the horrific thing I had to indoor.
The trauma of watching around 112 people drop like flies. The trauma of being suck in the air for 216 hours.  Nine whole days of watching people who you've knew for years choking on their own blood, people having panic attacks after their loved ones have died, people trying and succeeding sucide. The knowingness that you might be the next lucky person to be put out their misery. The responsibility of looking after now orphaned children because their parents are dead. Those same children crying because their sibling won't wake up.
Everyone starving because of the lack of food on the flight, and the flight attendants, who were on the verge of tears, having to calm down the now angry mob of passengers in front of them. Being a witness of murder and cannibalism because they were that hungry.
People were turning on each other like it was the civil war.  Whilst adults were screaming back and forth, children were banging on the windows, begging to be let off the flight. The knowledge that the pilot could pass out and crash the plane at any minute plagued my mind as we were hoping that this would end soon.
No one tried to help us, no one did help us until nine days. Nine days after this fucking hell started.