I'm running. Running for my very life. Not just for my life but for the life of our little angel. God, please spare my angel. I'm running as hard as I can in bare feet. I can hear his heavy, angry footfalls behind me. My heels feel like they are on fire. I'm losing strength but I can't stop. I can't stop. I can't stop. I can't lose my angel.
My toe snags something. I cry out as I fall. He is immediately on me. I scream and kick and fight and claw. I can't lose. I can't lose. I see a flash of silver streak through the air. Pain splits me in two. It radiates and pulsates through my body from its source at my heart. I can't stop. I still claw and slash at his face. I spit and I writhe and I scream. A second stab of pain rips through my lungs. I can't breathe. My screams become strangled whispers. I can feel the blood gurgling in my throat. I can't breathe. I feel as if my chest is collapsing in on itself. My nursing training kicks in. My lungs are collapsing. I am as desperate as a dying dog. My voice is gone. I can't make a sound. I'm lying in a pool of something warm, wet, and sticky. Blood.
I drift in and out of consciousness. He's gone, I think. In my consciousness I'm too scared of him to move. In my sleep I dream of death. In the distance I hear a scream. I vaguely wonder if it is real or not. Part of me is aware that I am dying but the rest and much larger part of me is too far gone to care or try to fight. For a terrifying moment, I return to full consciousness. I'm so cold and there is so much pain. Red and blue lights flash in the pool around me. Distorted faces and voices float around me. Blackness.
I am first aware again of a bright light outside of my eyelids. Someone with strong, calloused, gently hands is gently stroking mine. Blackness.
I wake again to the bright light and gently hand on mine. My eyes open for a moment. I see John, tired and torn, asleep in a chair with his head lolling to the side. Blackness
The light comes again. For some reason I feel that this time is different than the last, more permanent. Carefully, I open my eyes. John is laying on a cot in the corner, sleeping. Mom and Dad are leaned up against each other in two very uncomfortable looking hospital chairs, asleep. I want to talk but there is something in the way. My mind is still hazy from pain meds. I look down and see a ventilator. I lay there for a short while taking stock of my body. Everything aches dully through the drugs in my system. I wonder if my angel is ok. At the thought my heart monitor speeds. A nurse enters and puts something in my IV. I guess they think I'm in pain. I guess I am. Blackness
I wake again to light. John's hand is stroking mine in little circles. "When do you think she'll wake up?" he asks. His voice is rough with worry and lack of sleep. This bothers me.
"Soon." my mom's voice answers. They took her off the meds to make her sleep about 2 hours ago. It should be any minute now." There is false hope in her voice.
I try to open my eyes but they merely flutter, still heavy with sleep. "Did you see that!?" asks John. There is so much hope in his voice. I don't want to let him down. I steel myself for the almost impossible task of opening my eyes. I strain for what feels like ages, only achieving the occasional flutter. Finally, with a final push, they open. The light is so bright on my unaccustomed eyes but I refuse to close them for fear that they would not open again. "Hey," John says, "Mal, you're in the hospital. You're gonna be fine. You were attacked." I wince at the words. "Are you in pain? he asks worriedly. My first chance to speak.
"No." My voice comes out in a hoarse whisper like sandpaper. "I remember." I continue, "I'm thirsty."
"Ok, just a second." my mom says, "I'll be right back." I realize that my ventilator is gone.
"Is the baby ok?" I ask. A tear escapes my eyes and my weak voice breaks. John appears to steel himself to say bad news.
"Yes," he says to my surprise. Then I realize why he looked like that. I hadn't told him yet. I had meant to tell him that night. That night... The memories come back in a painful rush and I struggle to lock them away again.
"How long have I been out?" I ask.
"2 weeks." My dad speaks for the first time.
"Daddy," I say, my voice breaking, "I'm so sorry."
"You've got nothing to be sorry for baby"
We sit in silence and then my mom returns with heavenly water. I quench the Sahara desert that has become my throat.
Later that day, the investigators come to interview me. They haven't caught the man who tried to kill me yet. I'm tired but I try to tell them everything I can remember. By the end I'm crying and my mom forces them out of the room. We all sit in silence for a moment. Finally, John speaks; "Are you ok Malory?"
"I'll be fine." I whisper quietly. Its a lie of course. They don't know how truly terrified I am of him coming back to finish off my baby and I. My angel shouldn't have survived. He stabbed me so many times. In my neck, in my chest, in my legs, in my arms. I was in surgery for hours when they first brought me to the hospital and no one knew I was pregnant until later. The baby should have died. I should have died.
That night, I make John go home. "I'll be fine." I tell him, "They have a cop standing guard outside my door at all times and the nurses and doctors know what they're doing." I should know, I'm a nurse.
The next three weeks in the hospital pass rather uneventfully. Slowly, I am weened off the remaining pain meds I am on. I take short walks with John down the hallways and we talk about the baby. I find out that both my lungs collapsed and my heart was barely missed by the first stab. I lost nearly half of my blood. My angel shouldn't be alive. My mom cried when the investigators came to interview me. I answered questions calmly. They told us that the man who tried to kill us, the baby and I, was apprehended covered in my blood two blocks from where they found me. But they originally let him go because he said he had only witnessed it and was trying to find a phone to call for help. He would be charged with two accounts of attempted murder. One for me and one for my angel. After nearly a month and a half, I am released from the hospital, 2 months pregnant.
John and I are so happy. And so is Angelina. Angie is two now and completely unaffected by the traumatic events of her early life. Someday I might tell her the story of her miraculous survival. I know that God wanted her here or she would have died like any other baby. I'm so grateful for her life and mine. So grateful.
