He then shifted his twisted grin to my belly, where my baby still lay. His knife hovered dangerously close, its cold edge grazing my skin. “Now, it’s your turn, little one,” he hissed.
Even though I was unconscious, my hands, instinctively protective, clutched my belly. He snapped my fingers with brutal indifference, wrenching my hands away. Exposing my swollen abdomen, he readied the blade. With just one stab, he could snuff out the fragile life within me.
I screamed, my soul quaking with terror. No! I shrieked, clawing desperately to return to my body, willing to endure the torture all over again just to save my child. But it was futile. I was too far gone. My soul couldn’t return. I was helpless, unable to do anything but watch.
The man cackled, lowering his knife toward my womb. Blood bloomed like a crimson flower beneath the blade. In that moment of complete despair, when all hope had been extinguished, the front door burst open.
A delivery boy I had called earlier—an hour ago, when I first noticed my water breaking—rushed in. With a forceful kick, he sent the psychopath tumbling to the ground.