Chaos and painkillers

24. High vigor.

Thursday, 28th February 2019.

After going ghost for almost 72 hours, Laila did what Laila did best, come home and act like the witch she was.

As if those 3 days didn't happen. As if they didn't pass with no contact after that last heated conversation.

She didn't call. She didn't text. Nothing.

Had she expected him to call or text? If she did, she must have been stupid. He was infatuated by her, not stupid. Although he was becoming a mumu just like Tahir had hinted and he didn't like it.

Could he help it though? No.

The woman was physically irresistible and it'd been so long. So long since he had had a hard time swooping someone out of his mind. But well, this was different. She was different. She was his wife. Unlike the few others he had swooped off easily.

And in her head, he was supposed to suck it like the big boy he was, right?

Alright, He would.

Didn't mean only she mattered in this, though. It didn't mean he didn't feel disrespected. It didn't mean he didn't want out, despite his obsessive infatuation with her.

Was it even worth it? Chasing her? He'd lose interest the moment he got what he wanted anyway, why was he even stressing?

He was Sudais Idris. He got what he wanted, from whoever he wanted. Sooner or later, She was going to fall into his trap. And then, all the preposterous consciousness he was starting to harbor towards her would disappear into thin air. And then he would be free.

In the meantime, he wanted peace to reign. He wanted no fights. As such, he would try and although he was more than 50% sure he would fail, he would try. At least, until he selfishly got what he wanted and until his contract was over so he could pack his shit and leave the house for the witch.

Slamming the door to the car close, Sudais waved a hand at the guard who greeted him. He ran up the steps of his front porch as he retrieved a key from his pocket to crack the door open. Stepping inside, he pushed the door close with the heel of his shoes and placed the 2 keys on the key hanger.

He slid open the glass doors that separated the foyer and the main living room and immediately narrowed his eyes at the disturbing sounds he could make out. He dropped the leather bag of bread and stepped out of his shoes before walking further.

There.

At the station of their grey stationary section of couches, he found Laila standing with a paper note in her hand, the rug covered in books, textbooks, her MacBook, pens, and highlighters.

What he found disturbing was the fact that she read out loud in a croaky voice as she bounced her shaky legs back and forth, the only clothing on her, was a thigh-length oversized basketball jersey. His jersey. The one that oversized even him.

This woman had got to be kidding. She really was serious about torturing him.

He stood rooted to his spot and folded his arms to examine the situation.

She paced back and forth, oblivious to his presence, and read out from the paper, then hid it behind her back to repeat what she read. She started and halted. Closed her eyes tight to stomp her feet. Letting a scream out of frustration, she simmered down and wailed as if she was in pain.

Laila shoved the note at her face and read it out loud, then smashed the note to her chest and folded her arms to keep it in place.

Eyes closed, she attempted to repeat the mantra she had been trying to get into her thick skull. Her words hitched and she smacked her face, the note slowly falling to the floor.