Emelie Schepp - Marked For Revenge

Her stomach hurt.

The nausea came in waves, and she wished she could just stick her finger down her throat. She wanted to spit—the amount of saliva in her mouth increased with every wave of nausea—but she knew she couldn’t. So she swallowed, again and again.

Two lines away, Noi stood obsessively flicking her backpack strap. They avoided looking at each other, pretended they were strangers.

For now, it was as if they had never met.

Those were the rules.

The woman behind the counter tapped on her computer keyboard. Her hair was dark and pulled into a tight ponytail. The airline emblem was embroidered on the left pocket of her black jacket, underneath which she was wearing a white blouse with a Peter Pan collar.

Pim stood with one arm on the counter. She leaned slightly forward in an attempt to reduce the pain in her swollen belly.

“You can put your bag on the belt,” the woman said, examining Pim’s face. Taking a deep breath, Pim swung her suitcase onto the conveyor belt.

Nausea ran through her like an electric shock.

She grimaced.

“Is it your first time?”

The woman looked at her questioningly.

“Going to Copenhagen, I mean?”

Pim nodded.

“You don’t need to worry. Flying isn’t dangerous.”

Pim didn’t answer. She didn’t know what she was supposed to say. She kept her eyes on her shoes.

“Here you go.”

Pim took her boarding pass and immediately left the counter.

She wanted to get out of there, away from the woman, away from her wondering gaze.

She didn’t want to talk to anyone.

No one.

“Hey! Wait!” The woman behind the counter called to her.

Pim turned around.

“Your passport,” she said. “You forgot your passport.”

Pim went back and mumbled thanks. Clutching her passport to her chest with both hands, she walked slowly toward security.

* * *

Alone again, Jana Berzelius sank slowly to her knees. The pain was excruciating.

She just wanted to close her eyes. Carefully, she touched the back of her head, feeling the wound. Her fingers were immediately covered in blood. She wiped them on her jacket and looked around. Her maroon hat lay fifteen feet to her left, next to her briefcase. She carefully crawled to it, feeling the hard ice against her legs, knowing she couldn’t stay out here on the cold ground.

Then she noticed the bitter taste of metal. She spit and saw that it was red.

As red as the color of her hat.

She counted to three and struggled to her feet again. It felt like someone was stabbing her in the head, and the world was spinning. She supported herself with one hand on the wall of the pink archway.

She didn’t yet have the strength to walk.

So she stood there, letting the blood run down her neck.

* * *

Pim was shaken awake by the plane flying through turbulence.

She clutched the armrests, breathing quickly. Nausea radiated through her body, causing her heart to pound even faster.

She craned her neck in an attempt to see Noi, who was sitting in a window seat seven rows behind her. The headrests were in the way.

The plane was quiet. Most of the passengers were sleeping, and the flight attendants had withdrawn behind the curtains. The lights were off, but here and there a reading light glowed above someone’s seat. Some people were reading, others watching movies on the tiny screens mounted on the seat backs in front of them.

The plane shook again, this time more forcefully.

Her palms were damp with sweat, and she kept her death grip on the armrests, closing her eyes and trying to focus on taking long, slow breaths.

Her stomach was aching.

She suddenly had the urge to go to the bathroom and glanced over the headrests toward the bathrooms at the rear of the plane. After a brief moment’s consideration, she unlatched her seat belt and slowly stood. Walking carefully down the aisle, she gripped one headrest after another along the way to keep her balance.

Her stomach cramped up again, and she started panicking.

The plane’s jerky movements made her sway and bump against the seats.

A quiet voice from the cabin crew encouraged all passengers to remain in their seats and fasten their seat belts.

Pim stopped, hesitating, but continued toward the bathrooms.

She had to go, there was no stopping it. No waiting, either.

Not even for a minute.

She stumbled forward and had just reached the back of the cabin when the plane suddenly dropped. She lost her balance and fell to the side, but she was able to keep herself mostly upright until she reached the door of the bathroom. Rushing in, she closed the door behind her and locked it.

The pain in her stomach was unbearable.

She opened the lid and looked into the toilet. The stink of industrial toilet cleaner and urine hit her in the face. On the floor lay damp, trampled, ripped hand towels. The white plastic faucet dripped, and she could hear the thunder of the engines clearly.

Pim gave a start when there was a knock at the door.

“Hello? I’m sorry, but you must return to your seat,” yelled a voice in English.

Pim tried to answer, but her body crumpled in pain. She pulled down her pants and sat on the cold seat.

“Can you hear me? Hello?” the voice outside continued.

“Okay,” Pim said.

Then she could say nothing more.

Panic had captured her in its iron fist. The pain in her stomach slowly sank farther down in her gut.

She held her breath, sitting absolutely still for thirty seconds. Then she got up and again looked into the toilet.

There it was. A capsule. Lying there in the toilet.

“I’m sorry, but you really have to return to your seat now! All passengers!”

There was pounding on the door and the handle jiggled up and down.

“Yes! Yes!”

Pim wiped herself, tossed the paper in the wastebasket, pulled up her pants and carefully reached her hand into the toilet to retrieve the capsule.

She retched when she saw the brown film on its surface.

Holding it under running water, she carefully rubbed the rubber membrane with soap and water a few times.

She knew what she had to do now. She had no other option.

When the pounding on the door started again, she opened her mouth and placed the capsule on her tongue, tilting her head back, her panicked gaze fixed on a point on the ceiling.

She sweated profusely as the capsule slowly slid down into her stomach.

* * *

It was early morning when Jana Berzelius saw her reflection in her two-hundred-square-foot bathroom. She had managed to stumble home and pass out on her bed the night before. She decided to work from home today, having no desire to put in an appearance at the Public Prosecutor’s Office, or risk questions or curious glances from colleagues or clients. She didn’t want anyone to see her in the rare moments when she wasn’t totally put together.

She rested her hands on the square sink mounted on a black granite countertop. There was no cabinet underneath, instead only a shelf with folded snow-white washcloths in two perfect stacks. The shower was enclosed with dark tinted glass and the showerhead came directly out from the ceiling. The floor was Italian marble, and the room also held two closets and a white bathtub. Everything was sparkling clean.

Jana stood there in a camisole and panties. Her skin was covered in goose bumps.

Her face was swollen and her neck ached.

She cleaned the wound on the back of her head, replacing the bloody bandage with a clean one.

She was thinking about Danilo. She had thought about him all morning. He had attacked her, abused her and again tried to kill her. The thought of it all made her tremble in rage. If that skinny Goth kid hadn’t appeared, she might not be standing here—she might be dead.