ADIL BOUTAHLI

TWELVE BULLETS

January 10, 2014, began like any other workday.

I arrived at the convenience store for my overnight shift. I was working alone, as I often did. The store was quiet, and business was slow.

Shortly after midnight, three masked men entered the store.

One of them was carrying a gun.

Only minutes earlier, I had closed the cash register and secured the money inside the safe. The robbers demanded that I open both the register and the safe immediately.

I tried to explain that the system required several minutes to reopen.

I was nervous and frightened.

As I attempted to enter the code, the gunman struck me in the head with the weapon, causing me to fall to the ground.

The men believed that I was delaying them intentionally.

Several minutes later, the register finally opened. They took the money and stole cigarettes and merchandise from behind the counter.

My phone began ringing.

One of the robbers grabbed it and smashed it against the wall.

I attempted to stand, feeling dizzy from the blow to my head.

Without warning, the gunman began shooting.

Everything happened within seconds.

I felt intense heat throughout my body as I collapsed to the floor.

The robbers fled the store, leaving me alone.

I was lying in a pool of blood.

I tried to crawl toward the telephone to call for help, but I could barely move my arms.

At that moment, I believed I was dying.

I prayed.

A customer entered the store and immediately called 911.

Emergency responders arrived quickly and transported me to the hospital.

The following weeks remain difficult to remember.

I spent three weeks in a coma.

My parents and sister traveled from Morocco to be by my side.

Many people in my hometown believed I had died.

I had been shot multiple times, and my condition was critical.

When I finally regained consciousness, my life had changed forever.

I could not move my legs.

I could barely move my right arm.

The future that I had worked so hard to build suddenly disappeared.

But my fight had only begun.