The Supposed Terrorist

Chapter 8

Non-comforting and thick silence descended in the air. I kept gazing at my lawyer's face second after second. The only sounds were of his fork clattering against his plate, eyes fixed on the phone kept beside it numbly.

My food was getting cold, plate filled, but my mind didn't leave any attention for that little fact.

"Okay, just... what is going on in your head?" I broke the unbearable silence, asking the same question for probably the 8th time in the past 2 days.

He didn't look up from the screen. "I told you it's nothing."

"I don't buy that," I said.

"It's nothing."

Then why haven't you been making eye-contact from two days, dammit.

"Seriously?"

"Seriously," he said, letting the fork drop on the plate with a clank.

"Clearly you are pretty good at speech, huh," I muttered.

Artem took a deep breath, still not sparing me a glance. He picked up the empty plate, and jogged off to the kitchen.

Annoyance flared up inside me.

It had begun after Saturday, after our meeting with Simon. At first, it was simply the excessive focus he had on his research. So much so that it seemed like he might lose himself in it. He was roughly talking about whatever he found out, vague things. Not much, but he was. That kept me at bay.

But then, two days back, something changed. I just knew he had found something out. His behavior took a subtle shift. He stopped looking at me directly or making any sort of eye-contact. I had pestered him for it, but his silence on the matter did not break. Our conversations became much more one word-ish and short talks.

Well, this was enough. I wasn't going to ask for more. I had my own self respect and if he didn't want to talk about it, very well then.

Addition to that, a more reasonable part of me urged to give him some 'space', or whatever.

I forced the food down and cleaned my dishes up. Returning to the room, I took my jacket from the hanger. I tucked my wallet, phone and the picture in the pockets of it and left his apartment.

I stopped outside, considering informing him of where I was going but then trashed the option away. There was no need to bother the moron.

I covered my face with the hood and took the road to the store most nearby. The streets were mostly empty.

The hardest part, if you had ask someone, about having an entire trial going on in life- they would say something along the lines of trial itself, the media, the anxiety or something.

Me, personally, I would say the hardest part was mundane tasks. To keep going on about life most of the time as if it wasn't just turned over and worthless. As if you knew what you were doing. As if the only reason you had somewhere to stay or go to wasn't because a man somewhere decided to take pity on you.

I entered the store. It was not very crowded. A few couples and families stood in different aisles, looking through counters. Aroma of shampoo and soaps emanated in the air.

I made my way to the side where hygiene essentials were placed. Checking the prices for everything, choosing the pretty balance between cost and quality, I made my way to the billing counter 15 minutes later.

In a corner far above, a journalist delivered people their daily news on a thin LED. The register beeped periodically as the cashier billed the products.