You are laying in the hospital bed in labor. You pull your eyebrows together as the nurses comfort you. Your heart rate speeds up; this is the moment you have been waiting for. You let out an odd laugh causing the nurses to preach words of encouragement, “You will do great, darling.”
“Just try to relax, hun. We spoke to Zayn, he will be here shortly.” The nurse pats your hand with a large smile on her face.
“O-okay…” you say between short breaths. Squinting your eyes shut tight, you place your left hand on your belly and your right hand gripping the side of the bed. You begin to think of what a great mother you will be and how well you will raise this child. Zayn will be a fantastic father; you feel it in your bones.
For the past nine months, he would go on and on about what he will do to achieve that great father figure role.
“I will stop smoking,” he said a week ago, “I’m going to leave that behind.”
A whimper escapes your lips as your eyes flutter open. Beside the grey side table, which holds up a vase of tulips, given by your parents, stands a white empty chair. You think of Zayn and how much you want him here; to hold your hand and be with you.
Zayn and you had this little deal where you both wanted to keep the baby’s gender a surprise. Neither of you know whether the baby is a boy or a girl.
Zayn arrives at the nearest gas station around two forty in the morning. He hops out of the car and submerges into the cold Bradford air. Popping open the container for the gas, Zayn shuffles towards the gas pump. Before he could lift the gas pump out of its carrier, a deep voice calls out to him.
“Give me your damn money.”
Zayn turns his head within seconds to face a large man wearing a beanie, black sweat jacket and baggy sweats. And in that stranger’s hand, is a gun.
“Now listen sir,—” Zayn removes his hand off the gas pump and raises both his hands before himself slowly.
The stranger does not let Zayn finish speaking, “Shut the hell up and give the money!” the gun is quivering in the stranger’s hand. A sweat droplet seeps down his beanie and trickles down the side of his face. It is very visible that the stranger is scared out of his mind.
Zayn stalls the stranger by ever so slowly reaching in his back pocket for his wallet, “Listen, I have a wife who is in labor right this second.” Zayn swallows hard.
“I have a daughter who is dying from leukemia and I don’t have any money to pay for her treatment.” The stranger confesses.
Zayn nods in understanding, “I can help you. I want to help you. Just,” Zayn pulls out his wallet, “lower your gun, mate.”
The stranger eyes Zayn’s wallet then holds gaze with him. As he begins to lower his weapon, another man who is wearing a ski mask dashes behind the stranger and tugs at his sweat jacket, taking him by great surprise.
And when that man frightened the stranger with a gun, a shot was accidently fired: towards Zayn’s stomach.
“No!” the stranger yells as he watches Zayn’s brown eyes grow wide with a mix of astonishment and pain.
“Come on, man! We have to go now!” the man with the ski mask pulls on the hood of the sweat jacket. With sorrow and guilt filling the stranger’s eyes, he dispersed from the scene.
