In a bustling restaurant, a youth with a bright face was serving orders. This had been his everyday job for the last seven months, and by now, he had mastered the art of serving and hosting. But the bright face hid the frustration of poverty and loneliness.
And that's me.
My life was filled with endless labor and struggle. As an immigrant orphan from Gaza, life had been tough. Under the refugee scheme, the state was paying for my college, and I aspired to become an architect. I already had a strong foundation of knowledge and grades good enough to speak for me.
I came from a family of bakers. My childhood was filled with the heat and smell of dough rising in ovens. I was only fourteen when it happened—men with guns stormed in and killed my family while I hid in a sack of flour.
I remembered the mornings with my father—him kneading dough, singing softly in Arabic while I watched from a flour-dusted stool. The oven crackled warmly, and the smell of cardamom buns wrapped around us like a blanket. My mother would scold him for giving me too much sugar, and he'd wink at me behind her back. That kitchen was my whole world—until war turned it to ash.
Now, I just hope that my children in the future don't have to feel what I felt.
As I ended my shift, the night had already crept in. It was dark outside. I was reminded to return to what Americans call a "condo," though to me, it was simply shelter. While walking toward home, I felt the chill of December's wind tickle my face, sending a shiver through me.
As I took the final turn toward my street, I saw two men forcing a woman into their car, thrashing her arms and legs. It didn't take a genius to understand what was happening.
"Kidnapping," I muttered without thinking.
Without a second thought, I turned and sprinted in the opposite direction. It wasn't my business—they hadn't seen me, and I didn't know her.
I have my own future to look out for, I told myself. No getting tangled in the police, kidnappings, or worse—trying to play the hero.
But as I ran, I heard her scream.
"Help! Someone—anyone—please!"
The words struck me like lightning. I was back in that sack of flour, hiding, praying someone—anyone—would come save me. That scream echoed the one I never voiced, but desperately wanted to.
I gritted my teeth and turned back.
The street was empty. No headlights. No witnesses. Just the harsh rustling of the woman's coat and the low murmurs of the men. I crouched behind a parked van, heart hammering in my ears. The December air burned in my lungs as I fought to think. My hands trembled—not with fear, but fury. I wasn't trained. I wasn't strong. But neither was I nothing.
They were almost gone. I ran toward the car and slammed my forearm into the driver's window. The glass shattered. I reached in, unlocked the door, and dragged the driver out. He tried to flee, but I punched him over and over, then kicked his head like a football.
Another door flew open. One man stepped out, holding a gun. Another remained inside, still clutching the woman.
I tackled the man with the gun, grabbing at his arm. But I felt a sudden, sharp sting in my gut.
He had stabbed me.
The pain was blinding—white-hot and nauseating. My legs faltered, and a bitter taste rose in my throat. It wasn't like in the movies. There was no instant burst of rage or power. Just fear. Confusion. Blood. I felt it soaking my shirt, warm and sticky, as my knees screamed under my own weight. But something deeper—something primal—kept me moving.
Instinct took over. I bit down hard on his nose. He screamed, releasing the knife to try and push me away. I seized the blade from my own wound and stabbed his hand—the one holding the gun. He dropped it immediately.
With rage and survival driving me, I plunged the knife into his neck. His struggles slowed.
Staggering to my feet, I grabbed the gun and fired at the original driver, who was just beginning to rise.
A shot rang out—my gun hand jerked back. I had been shot by the man still half inside the car.
Clutching the knife, I sprinted toward him. He raised the gun, aiming straight for my chest. The shot hit. My vision blurred, my adrenaline waning.
I didn't break eye contact.
With the last bit of will, I swung the knife, slashing across his face. He screamed and fired again—another shot to my chest. But I didn't stop.
I drove the blade into his gut and collapsed beside him.
As I lay there, blood pooling beneath me, my life flashed before my eyes. Tears welled up.
I wish... I will have a safe and happy life next time.
My final vision was the terrified face of the woman I had saved—just before everything went dark.
In another world, a woman with silver hair lay screaming on a birthing bed.
"A little bit more, Princess. I can see the head," said the maester.
Moments later, the wail of a newborn echoed through the chamber.
"It's a boy—a new prince," the maester announced, beaming.
The child was swaddled quickly, his wails piercing the candlelit room. The silver-haired woman—his mother—reached out weakly, her face slick with sweat, her lips trembling with both exhaustion and awe. "He's beautiful," she whispered.