Sunset

Cars wound along the streets, as people left work, to a relaxing dinner with their spouses, or to have fun with their friends. But not John. He swerved in and out of traffic, honking every few seconds, and getting honked twice as many times.  Speed cameras took down his car plate number, and took his picture, as he sped along the roads. John knew he was speeding. But he was past the point of caring. Driving furiously, he stomped on the pedals, yearning for the car to go faster, as his wife screamed in pain in the backseat. He knew he had to get to the hospital. His wife, sprawled in the backseat, her pretty face contorted in waves of agony, was in labour. He had to get to the hostpital, and soon! Pressing down brutally on the gas, he willed, with every ounce of his will power, that the car go faster, that the needle on the speedometer would inch higher.

As he shot along the highway, his wife moaned in pain, a long low dreadful groan that tugged at his heart, that hurt his very soul. It was as though he was sharing the pain with her, a deep, emotional agony that ate away at his mind, while the same insidious pain ate away at her body. A pain that he could do nothing about, that he could not ease. 

He drove, espousing words of comfort, and telling her everything would be all right, if she would just hold on. Just cling on for a little while longer, they would be there soon. Soon, everything will be all right. He asked her to be strong, for him, for their unborn child. He wanted her to respond, to tell him she could hold it together, that she would be fine. He needed to be comforted just as much as she did. But all he got in return was one more deep agonizing groan, the ripped away at his heart. She was past the point of words, past the point of lucidity. She was slipping away, her groans growing softer, as her desperate hold on life slipped from her control. 

With the finesse of a race car driver, he shot into the emergency bay, just as his wife let out one more pained scream of sheer, unadulterated agony. And she was silent. Unmoving. Curled up on the back seat, she lay wrapped around her precious baby, that was slowly, from within her, killing her. Her bright blue dress was stained red, and the she lay in a puddle, a mixture of urine, blood, perspiration, and who knew what else. Pale and drained 

The professionals took over. Armed with a stretcher, they hauled her limp body out from the back seat of the car, and wheeled it into the ER. Doors slammed, and the operation light flashed red. John was left in the waiting room to sit out a long wait, knowing that his wife was in there, straddling the boundaries of life and death, while he sat in enforced downtime, twiddling his thumbs,

He was starving, and thirsty, caked in sweat, and shaking from trauma, and exhaustion. But he dared not rest, dared not leave the waiting room, dared not even buy a drink from the vending machines in the cafeteria. The operating light had been on for some time now, and the doctor could come out at any time. Any time now, his wife fate could be known to him. He dared not leave the room.

And so he paced, back and forth. Wound up so tight that he could neither sit down, nor think straight. He desperately wanted to know if she was all right, if she would be fine. He wanted the doctor to hurry up and come out, and tell him what happened to his wife.

As he sat in great trepidation the light blinked off. And the double doors swung open, and slowly, the doctor walked out. John leapt out of his chair, and sprinted towards the exhausted doctor. The doctor spoke. Just two words. Two words that would from then on, change the course of his life.

"I'm sorry"