Lambs to the slaughter

The wheels of the carry-on grated against the polished concrete.

I had expected a swoosh, a slide. I had gotten a rattle and shrill.

I willed them to stop, but our momentum could not be halted.

Underneath my jacket, pressed tightly against my abdomen, the passports felt damp.

I gulped down water like a marathon runner and found my place in the line.

My hand was stained black from the boarding passes.

Outside an icy mist fell over the tarmac, but in here, everything sweltered.

Forty-two, the golden ticket told me.

Like I needed a reminder.

I sighed too audibly and the man next to me turned to look at me. He gave me an apologetic smile, heartfelt condolences for my unknown loss.

He was handsome but my heart raced for entirely different reasons.

‘Now boarding priority passengers’ an announcement told me.

Not me. Definitely, not me.

I could see the white vessel that would take me away, wings poised, snout freshly sharpened. Miniature people running around it, fussing over wheels and cogs and thingamajigs.

In thirty minutes, I’ll be gone, I thought.

To dreams not yet unfulfilled.

The line pushed forward, and I bumped into the carry-on of the woman in front of me. It was the same black, shiny casing that kept me company on this day. The same noisy beetle.

I noticed two more of them then, just up ahead, and turned to see three behind me.

All the same. All the same.

We inched forward like lambs to the slaughter.