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What the hell is wrong with this chick? I nod and throw my bag over my shoulder. Adam and Reese can play their stupid games. I don’t have time for this shit. I walk toward the boarding gates, hoping no one else will bother me. I sit in front of the window and watch plane after plane taking off. Wondering where everyone is going or who they might be meeting. Fortunately, I am left alone. The attendant calls for my plane to board and I grab my bag and follow the mass of people.
An older gentleman is berating an attendant. He didn’t get the front seat he requested, and he is furious. They explain they reserved it for handicapped access flyers, but this douche is not having it. I groan, standing behind him.
“Come on, man, leave the attendant alone! Just take your seat or take the next flight!” I say. I am so annoyed. All I want to do is just leave this hell.
“Listen, son! This does not concern you!” He points his finger in my face.
Breathe, Kevin, breathe… he isn’t worth the time.
I don’t flinch at his actions. Instead, I remain still. Step one, don’t overreact. You are on a path of healing.
“Thought so!” He turns back toward the attendants to continue to berate them.
The attendant at the gate points to my hand that is holding the ticket. She gives me a weary thumbs-up and I nod. Waving me over to allow me to board the plane before the pain in the ass. She checks my ticket and hands it back, thanking me for being patient. I jog down the tunnel to the plane like a child, hoping it gets this thing in the air quicker. High hopes for the depressed loser in seat 15B.
As I sit down, I can only hope there is no one sitting next to me on this flight. Praying that it stays that way as the plane slowly fills. The belligerent man walks by and I look over my shoulder to watch where he is sitting. They have placed him at the very back of the plane. His face is bloodred and his knuckles are white from gripping his carry-on bags too tight. He should be thankful, as that is one place on the plane with more legroom.
Things seem to settle and I am relieved that the seat next to me is left open. Just before the flight attendant shuts the door, I hear her voice.
“Wait! Wait for me!” Bailey barely makes it through the door. “Thanks!”
She walks toward me, and I hold my breath. My mind is having a silent fight with itself. I want her to sit next to me, but then again, I don’t. She might talk to me, and then I would have to give her attention. I am such a dick.
She walks by but gives me a wink before continuing on. She sits next to the cranky flier, and I sort of feel bad for her. He seems quite impressed to have a woman who looks like her sitting next to a vile person like him. He isn’t bitching as much about the location of the seat.
The pilot makes his announcement and the flight attendants give the preflight instructions. I am barely listening. My leg bounces up and down out of nervousness. My head rests back on the seat and I put on my seat belt. The plane jolts, causing me to grasp the armrest. Concentrating on balancing out my breaths and soothing my anxiousness. We are finally up in the air and they turned the seat belt signs off. Attendants stand and serve passengers drinks and snacks. Some people move about the cabin of the plane, but I remain seated.
Most of the flight is uneventful until I hear a soft grunt from the rear of the plane. A rough cough follows. It is the soft grunt that has my attention. I turn back to see Bailey wrestling with the asshole on the back of the plane. His face is bright red and her expression is almost blank. She gives nothing away about what is happening, yet I can tell. I see a syringe fall on the ground and my heart drops. Anything could be in that thing… or nothing. If there is nothing but air inside the syringe and it’s injected into the vein, it could cause an embolism. Killing the person almost immediately. My heart sinks into my stomach.
I painfully remember not doing anything and the psychological warfare that ensued after.
The flight attendant knocks the cart into the armrest of a passenger several rows ahead of me. I am looking back and forth between the attendant and Bailey. Stress is building up in me, and this is exactly why I am getting away from Adam and Reese.
“Fuck it,” I whisper under my breath.
I get up and head toward the back of the plane. Passengers are not paying me any attention since the lady with the food and drinks is behind me. Bailey sees me moving toward her and she smiles. I honestly am at a loss for words. I pass by their row, vaguely seeing their hands tangled with each other. Their knuckles are white, from putting pressure on the other’s flesh. I duck behind the wall that separates the passengers from the lavatories and duck down. On my hands and knees, I crawl over, grabbing the syringe. I hold it up for Bailey, just in her peripheral view, and she quickly swipes it from my hands, jabbing it into his arm and pushing the liquid into his body.
His eyes widen realizing that he has lost this fight. His body falls limp, and I slink away from both of them. Opening the bathroom door, I walk into the small space. My hands rest on the side of the sink while I look at myself in the mirror with the dim lighting. I still don’t recognize the man staring back at me, and I don’t know if I ever will.
The door swings open, and I am pushed back against the wall. Bailey softly shuts the door behind her and beams at me. Her lips steal my attention and my mind is not quiet; but instead, the voices sing a different tune.
“I didn’t kill him,” she finally says. I look at her in confusion. But I saw… “It was a sedative. It will knock him out for a few more hours until we land.”
I nod, feeling relieved. She holds up a snake and I press myself against the wall further.
“Fuck that!” I exclaim. I hate snakes!
She giggles and places the drugged-up snake in a tampon box, then secures it in her bag that is draped across her body.
“I told you. I am a recovery specialist. I take back things that were stolen or locate illegal items.” She continues to laugh.
“What the fuck are you doing with that thing?!” I point to her bag. “It’s in a tampon box!”
“Calm down, ducky,” she mumbles. “It’s a Burmese python. It’s illegal to traffic them. Most buy them for their skin to make bags and crap. Others will keep them as pets until they get too big for their enclosure and then the dirty bastards just let them outside and leave them! Can you believe it?”
I stare at this woman and my body is recoiling at the fact she has a fucking snake in her bag and she is acting like it is no big deal. She turns and washes her hands. For that, I am grateful, but the bathroom is out of towels, so she turns and wipes her hands on my shirt.
“Listen, do you want a job or not?”
