Azariah - God Has Helped

Chapter 10

Pain tore through her body like fire and ice intertwined. Every nerve screamed, every muscle clenched, and every breath felt stolen from her lungs. She wanted this baby out now—now. Contractions racked her from the inside, each wave hotter, sharper, more relentless than the last. Her knees shook beneath her, and a haze of nausea made the world tilt dangerously. She felt faint, on the precipice of losing herself entirely.

Kiara sat on a plastic chair in the crowded maternity ward, her body trembling, sweat soaking her hair and clinging to her skin. Around her, mothers groaned and moaned, each lost in their own private hells of labor. She wanted to move, to free her bowels, to release even a fraction of the unbearable pressure—but the nurse's orders pinned her in place. She attempted to rise, her body quivering, but a nurse appeared suddenly, quick and commanding, preventing her from moving.

Tears streamed down her face unchecked. She couldn't stop them. The pain was no longer just physical—it was an invasion of every fiber of her being. Her last update? Five centimeters dilated. Five more to go. And she had arrived hours ago, at 5:45 PM, after contracting violently while at home with Davar, watching football in what had now seemed like a lifetime ago. She had waited, hoping for a sign, a trace of blood in her discharge that would justify rushing to the hospital—but the delay had only prolonged her agony.

Every twinge, every sharp jab from within her uterus, made her want to cry out, to scream, to break free. She felt her son twisting and turning with frantic energy, kicking against her ribs, moving as if he, too, demanded release. Her chest heaved; she tried to regulate her breathing, but each inhale drew a new wave of pain into her body.

Finally, a nurse signaled for her to enter the delivery room. Relief surged briefly through Kiara's body, so fleeting that the next contraction stole it away. Her eyes met Davar's for a split second—fear, worry, helplessness mirrored in his gaze—and a fresh tide of tears cascaded down her cheeks. Anger flared: at him, at the pain, at the cruel timing of life itself.

She followed the nurse, each step a laborious crawl as another contraction gripped her. The room they led her into was small, partitioned by thin drapes, the other mothers just silhouette of suffering on the other side. She swallowed her pride. She was poor. She knew it. She knew this pain, this vulnerability, would be witnessed. But she didn't care. This was survival.

She lowered herself onto the bed. The contraction returned, more ferocious than before. Moans escaped her lips despite herself. She wanted to relieve herself, but rules and instructions bound her movements. Her eyes fell on a small, reusable pan nearby. A glimmer of relief sparked, and she moved toward it with trembling hands, trying to obey her body while pain clawed at her from every direction. The act disgusted her—yet offered the tiniest measure of control in the storm of torment.

Suddenly, the baby shifted violently. His tiny body rolled from the bottom to the top of her womb. Her breath hitched, heart hammering. A violent surge of panic washed over her. She collapsed back onto the bed, curling into herself as pain ripped through her chest and stomach. She tried lying on her side, as instructed, but each movement only intensified the agony.

She crawled across the floor, sobbing, shaking, humiliated beyond measure—but the shame was swallowed by pain. Her first child, the life she had carried for months, was demanding entry into the world. She flung herself back onto the bed, legs spread, muscles taut, each contraction testing her limits.

"Nurse! The baby is coming!" she screamed, voice raw and ragged, pulling from the depths of her exhaustion and desperation. Footsteps approached slowly—never fast enough. Every second felt like eternity. She wanted someone, anyone, to take him out of her, to end this symphony of agony coursing through her.