My legs are heavy and breathing irregular. I am walking in a daze. The last few hours went by like a muscle-numbing nightmare. My nostrils are filled with the smell of overflowing toilets, muck swimming on the floor. Blood splattered all over me. It’s not mine. But of an old man who tried to fight them. They shot him right before my eyes and in panic, I couldn’t control my bladder any longer. I hadn’t used the toilet for seven hours.
“Ma’am. Are you alright?” I heard a voice floating from afar. I responded with a nod.
“Don’t worry, it’s over. We have a team of doctors waiting in the lobby. They’ll take care of you,” the blurry face whispered into my ear.
“Can you give me some fresh clothes, first? Mine smell of blood and urine.” My voice still trembling.
“Of course. Let me carry your bag. Take deep breaths. You’re in shock.”
They laid me on a bed. The doctors were examining me. I could hear them talking in hushed tones.
“They were held captive for 18 hours. One from the rescue squad, two in-flight passengers, two cabin crew members, and all the five hijackers are dead.”
Written for Flash Fiction for the Purposeful Practitioner
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