by Neta Shlain
So many things went wrong that year for Frida: boyfriend breakup, patient death, adultery, abortion. Her hospital shifts commenced at dusk and ended at dawn only to be repeated a few hours later. This carousel ride was reaching its end.
Day in day out Frida felt it rising in her stomach as if she were a volcano getting ready to give in to the hot pressure of melting rock.
It is said that magma takes a minimum of seven hundred degrees Celsius to become what it is.
It took Frida six months to be ready for her silent eruption. Every event during that time contributed a pulsation, a thump that burrowed deeper, crystallising an idea into a fascinating plan.
Fascination isn’t easy to overcome or satisfy. It is something unreasonable that grows on you. Frida’s fascination resembled a chronic illness that has taken over, repeatedly presenting itself until she was wrapped in it like a fly in a spider-web. It had become shockingly comforting to resort to it during the day every time something went wrong.
On the night of her crime, Frida took a halt to ponder over the fact that as an army nurse her life didn’t belong to her, in the case of survival she’d be punished. To make sure the plan worked she added twenty more Temazepams to the pile of fifty in her stomach.