I hate roller coasters. Not the childish ones— the ones you hear from the entrance; the ones that make you feel small when you walk beneath them: loud and filled with children whining about wait times. I don't hate the thrill; I hate the feeling of letting go. Letting my heart and worries plunge with the drop, allowing an empty head to circulate freely as it loops. And letting everything return once it slows down to a stop, remembering all I wanted to let go.

My little brother is a roller coaster dork, watching bizarre youtube videos with those clickbait thumbnails on repeat— the ones titled "DEADLIEST ROLLER COASTER EVER." We've all seen those videos before, but only to be left with disappointment. No deaths were actually involved— unfortunately— I mean, fortunately.  

Every summer, my parents would purchase amusement park passes from Costco. This year, they happened to be Universal Studios tickets again. We go there nearly every summer; not complaining or anything, but I've seen it all. I've been on all the rides, drank the infamous Butterbeer, almost vomited—it was too sweet— and taken pictures with Megatron and robotic raptors. I swear, those things will electrocute you when you get too close, or worse, your hair gets tangled in their claws. 

However, one ride I wasn't looking forward to—at all— was Revenge of the Mummy. Yet, here we were, in front of the line. I'd gone on this ride before, but embarrassingly, I, the oldest child, gripped my mom's arm, begging her to leave with me. I was terrified, afraid I would fall off the rollercoaster and get crushed. Or even worse, my mom or siblings would. 

"Mom, could we leave?" I nudged her again, but my voice blended with the background.  

The lights were dimmed, but I could still see the silhouettes of the surrounding props and people. I looked around and admired the hieroglyphics that illuminated beyond the darkness. It felt like they were moving, telling a story, but it could've been my imagination and the twists and turns in my stomach. 

What was not pleasant was the stench and humidity of hundreds of sweaty people in the queue. Flashing phones, cries, moms telling their kids to behave, dads' armpits, and squeaky shoes. Another six reasons why I should've left. 

My mom looked horrified; she also hated roller coasters, but she was doing this for us. Well, not me, obviously— for my two siblings. They were approaching this situation with ease, jumping up and down and spinning around the highly-touched stanchions—ew. My little brother started rambling about how he had heard so much about this ride and was finally tall enough to ride it. 

What masochists, I thought. They were excited to ride a rollercoaster based on a horror movie they refused to watch. Ironic if you ask me. How could a movie be worse than this? 

I hadn't given up yet, until the ride attendant asked, "How many people?" 

"4," my sibling excitedly replied. Technically, I could still exit to the right, but what about my brother? It was his first time going. If he were to get hurt, I would blame myself for not being there. "Dude, go sit down. Stop being a baby," my sibling teased, stuck out her tongue, and shoved me in the cart. I swiftly fell to the outermost seat, my little brother beside me. We secured our seatbelts to hear those lifeless clicks.

"Put your hands up," we followed the instructions, and they each individually checked if we were fully buckled up. 

I didn't trust them. 

Imagine how often they had to do this— they were probably exhausted by repetition and most likely built enough faith. I double-checked our seatbelts, tugging them; only for them to push back. I took a deep breath, knowing we were safe and secure. 

"I can't wait," my little brother exclaimed. 

Yeah, I can't wait till this is over.

 The ride started moving. The first part was an exhibition, but I believed it was the worst thing ever, regardless of whatever it showcased. I was too focused on when they will throw us into the abyss rather than the moment. And I could feel that anticipation grow and grow. 

I anxiously wrapped my hand around my brother's arm, wanting comfort and ensuring we were both okay. 

It slowly got darker. The lights were dimmer than ever, webs blanketed the ceiling, and the ancient treasures displayed glimmered. It was beautiful, but I was too focused on the click-clacks of the chain. 

Then we reached the peak, and I met the mummy's gaze. Why did it have to look at me, out of everyone? The cart slowly crept towards the arch, and before I could even blink, a voice tethered the walls, "Your souls are mine," plunging us into a dark tunnel filled with sharp turns and steepness. 

My frights, anxiety, and everything was theirs— for less than 30 seconds. But what wasn't theirs was the surprising adrenaline and a memory of freedom.