"You are going to have to push Mrs. Oakley," the Doctor said, peering up from behind his mask between Farrah's spread legs, "On three, okay?"
The moment had finally come and Farrah was so nervous she wanted to vomit right then and there. Her husband, Jeremey, was right beside her, holding her hand like had promised, encouraging her as he had promised, waiting for his newborn son to come into this world.
"One."
Farrah felt so dizzied she might pass out. It was finally happening. All these long months of waiting, of worrying, had come to this.
"Two."
She was about to be a mother. Something she had only dreamed of, but all the fear was welling inside of her making her want to burst.
"Three."
Farrah's body wretched and contorted as the baby began to come from inside of her. She could see the doctor slowly cradling a new life as the pain threshold far passed what she could withstand and she squeezed Jeremy's hand so hard she heard tiny cracks as bones in his finger broke.
Farrah screamed bloody murder as the child pushed its way into this world. Suddenly, the pain diminished and a tiny, barely audible cry filled the delivery room.
The doctor turned on heel to clean the child and detach the umbilical cord, but in mere seconds Farrah and Jeremy were about to meet their new child.
The doctor turned to present the child, but Farrah could see it in his eyes. He hesitated in the slightest. She felt her throat collapse and her stomach surge with fresh bile ready to vomit once more. It turned out actions did have consequences...
Farrah was a twenty-six-year-old redhead with a penchant for jogging. Her ginger hair bobbed back and forth in a tight pony tail, swinging like a pendulum from side to side as she ran.
Every morning it was the same routine, one mile down Main St, a left onto Maple for two miles, cut down Pine for three-quarters of a mile, and then the home stretch down Juniper for a grueling two and half mile finish.
The six and a quarter mile journey usually took her fifty minutes.
Despite her good cardio routine, Farrah had anything but a runners' body. She wasn't pencil thin or cut with abs, but a had a normal, slim figure that still allowed for womanly curves in her hips and jiggly C-cup breasts that had to be restrained with a tight, black or purple or red or blue sports bra while she ran.
She usually wore dark yoga pants and track shoes, exposing her entire mid-section as she ran, something, that despite making her feel confident in herself, also attracted some unwanted attention.
It was on this particular morning that Farrah had her worst encounter yet. A man was blocking her path only one hundred yards in front of her. He had the hood of his sweatshirt up, his pants baggy and loose, and both of his hands in his pockets. She couldn't see his face, but he was walking towards her, moving oddly, like he was drunk.
Farrah slowed, trying to come up with a plan to evade him, but the traffic on Main St. was too dense to cross. She took a deep breath, worried about this man for a reason she couldn't put her hand on.
Twenty feet, then ten, she would be passing him any second. She tucked her head down, her ear plugs firmly in, trying not to make eye contact when suddenly his arm snapped out and grabbed her across her belly and pulled her towards him.
Farrah was now pressed against his chest, his fingers across her stomach and his other hand now drawing a knife to her throat.
"Give me your fucking wallet," he screamed in her ear, his voice squeaky and awkwardly high-pitched.
"I...I don't have anything on me!" Farrah said.
"Bullshit!" her assailant barked, the knife pressing thinly to her throat now.
His hand slipped from her stomach up and now grabbed at her breast while he playfully laughed in her ear.
"Well if you don't have money to offer..."
Farrah panicked. It was broad daylight. Cars were driving past her. How could this be happening? She felt her attacker attempt to drag her off the side of the road towards bushes when suddenly his hand and body vanished.
She heard a grunt, a heavy hit and then something collapse before she worked up the courage to turn around.
When she did, a tall man in runners' gear greeted her, with her would-be attacked lying flat on the pavement.
"Are you okay?" he asked, extending a hand.
"Y-yes." Farrah said cautiously, still traumatized.
"Meth head," he said, calmly, "Shits been getting into this neighborhood for years."
"Oh." Farrah said, it was all she could muster.
"I don't mean to tell you what to do, but if I were a young, attractive woman like yourself, I'd either start running a different route, or bring a friend when coming down this way."
"T-thanks," Farrah said.
The stranger smiled again, "You want me to walk you home?"
"Yeah," Farrah stammered, "That would be great."
The doctor stopped, instead handing the infant to one of the nurses who quickly escorted it out of the room.
"Where are you taking him?" Jeremy pleaded, "Is everything okay?"
"Everything is perfectly fine, Mr. Oakley," the doctor said reassuringly, her calm smile somewhat appeasing Jeremy.
Farrah was frozen. Looking at her hands instead of the doctor or Jeremy.
"I actually just want to check up on Mrs. Oakley if you don't mind while the baby is getting its routine check-up. Ten minutes' tops, and then you can see him."
"Oh, okay." Jeremy said, looking to his wife and then the doctor.
"Ten minutes," she repeated.
Jeremy quickly left the room. Farrah felt like ice had starting growing from the ceiling like stalactites.
