People never talk about how much dying sucks, especially a painful death. I had just finished a twelve hour shift at work and went to the grocery store to get food for the night. My dinner tonight was going to consist of a bottle of Maker's Mark, a few ibuprofen, a fat pan fried ribeye, and a baked potato. It was something I looked forward to every Friday night. I planned to slap that together and then binge some anime specifically, Bleach: Thousand-Year Blood War.
I had just gotten back to my car when I felt a shove. I flew forward into the door, and then I heard two voices.
I turned to see two young black men, or YN wearing masks covering most of their face.
"Give us your money, old man."
Old man, I thought. I was only thirty five. I turned to see two young teens. One of them had a pistol pointed squarely at me.
"I don't have any money, but you can have my wallet. It has my credit cards in it."
The teen with the pistol got angry and slapped me across the face with the barrel of the gun. "Bitch, you don't have any money? I saw you buying steak and whiskey!"
The hit stunned me, and I could immediately taste blood. My cheek had cut across my teeth. I fumbled for my wallet, pulled it out, and tossed it to them. The one without the gun started rifling through it.
"Shit, there ain't nothing in here."
The one with the gun grew frustrated. "What else you got?"
They told me to turn my pockets out, but I was starting to get over my initial shock. After taking that hit, my middle-aged white man rage was starting to kick in.
"I don't have anything else. Take the wallet and fuck off or shoot me. I'm over this shit."
There was a brief standoff before the gunman told his partner to check me for jewelry. He went for my collar first and then reached for my watch. I jerked my hand back instinctively. They could take everything else, but not the watch. It had been in my family for generations, since the early 1900s. I wasn't about to be the one to lose it. If I had a son one day, it would go to him.
In hindsight, my reaction was stupid, but in the moment, I had had enough of these fucks. When I jerked my hand back, it pissed him off, and he reached for it again. In a blind rage, I headbutted him as hard as I could right in the nose. I dropped him to the pavement and tried to tackle the one with the gun.
Just before I reached him, he managed to squeeze off a few rounds. The bullets slammed into my chest, and I fell face first into the asphalt.
The last thing I remembered was them arguing one bitching about his nose while he stripped the watch from my wrist and took my car keys. I bled out in the parking lot. It wasn't fast, and it wasn't slow; it was just agonizing pain. I'm pretty sure I pissed myself, too. Eventually, I just faded away as the sound of sirens wailed in the distance.
Glastonbury, England – February 23rd, 1977
Henry Ambrosius paced back and forth in the hallway outside the bedroom door. His wife, Anna, was inside giving birth to their first child. Their house elf, Dilly, sat calmly on a bench, humming while she kicked her feet. A midwife from St. Mungo's was tending to the birth.
Through the door, Henry could hear his wife's muffled screams and the midwife's steady voice telling her to push. He heard his wife give a final, guttural grunt of effort, followed by the midwife saying, "It's almost out, dear! One more big push, you've got this!"
The final push came, and then the most pure and terrifying sound Henry had ever heard: a baby crying.
"Master, the baby is here!" Dilly said excitedly, jumping up.
There were a few minutes of heavy panting, more pacing, and the steady wail of the newborn before the door finally opened. An elderly woman named Margaret, the midwife, beckoned Henry in. He rushed to his wife's side.
"Look, Henry. We have a son," Anna whispered. She was pale and exhausted, holding the baby bundled in a blanket as he suckled at her breast.
"Aye, that we do," Henry said affectionately, his voice thick with emotion as he kissed his wife's forehead. He looked down at his son with tears in his eyes, feeling a kind of love he had never experienced before.
Anna looked wearily but lovingly at her son, then up at her husband. "We make cute babies... but give me a couple of years before the next one," she chuckled weakly.
Margaret stepped in and began administering recovery potions to Anna. "Have you decided on a name yet?" she asked.
"Christopher. Christopher Michael Ambrosius," Henry answered proudly. "Named after both our fathers."
The hours flew by as Margaret checked on the mother and child. "Just get some rest, dear. Pop by St. Mungo's in a few days for a follow-up. Henry, Dilly... you look after them," Margaret said with an authoritative tone as she packed her bags.
Henry jokingly gave a crisp American salute. "Orders received, ma'am. The devil himself would have to come and try to take them from me," he said with a grin.
Dilly nodded her head in proud affirmation. She was already enamored with baby Christopher, lovingly touching his little toes while Anna talked to her about how precious he was. It was the picture of a perfect, loving family welcoming a new member into a world they didn't yet know was about to change.