The Supposed Terrorist

Chapter 10

I deposited the feather-light sleeping figure of my client on the couch.

Feather-light.

I had no noticeable trouble carrying her sleeping form back till my apartment. No trouble.

It irritated me to no end. She wasn't supposed to weigh so light. No woman her age was supposed to weigh this light.

I took her face in, eyes shut tight, no lines of worry on that pale forehead, if only temporarily.

A terrible, clogging feeling began to cloud in my chest and at its own accord, my one hand took hold of hers softly.

The knuckles were reddening up.

Guilt. Guilt overtook me.

I wasn't an idiot. I had noticed it all, watched it all. It was all there. Of course she had been hurting.

But she always found the will to smile. She always tried her hardest to not let it reach her. Consciously, she did what she could.

Interesting thing though, if your mind wasn't ready to admit you had a problem, your body was already on its way to do that job. Acute spikes of insomnia she tried to hide, irregular appetite, unusual fatigue– what your mind wasn't aware of, your body was.

But with her, you had be almost fooled to think it was fine.

Almost.

I knew it was the result of the past four weeks and everything that had been happening, but guilt still gripped me.

My words were the trigger.

I let go of her palm and my hand went to rest on her forehead. It was feverishly hot.

"Rico? Rico."

"Hm?" she mumbled.

"I hate to wake you up, but please change into dry clothes first."

"Right," she said, rubbing her eyes and getting up. Without sparing me a look, she left for the guest room.

I looked at my own clothes. They were completely wet, and my pants were all soiled. Sighing, I went to take a shower and change clothes.

The scene and her words replayed in my mind over and over as the hot water drizzled down my skin. My heart pained watching her like that and I had felt so... so useless. I wanted to have answers to the questions she cried out, but time and time again, my own voice had cried them.

I yearned to know why things horrific must be burdened by people the best, but it was futile. Nothing ever came out when I pondered the 'why'. It wasn't karma or destiny. It wasn't a compilation of past lives and deeds or some preordained fate.

It just was.

There was no grand plan written or a reason for things that happened. Explanations involving it and tales that echoed 'everything happens for a reason' existed merely to provide comfort. All the phrases passed around were ostensible.

I had told her, promised her, that it would be over soon.

I wondered if it had been the right thing to say. I wondered if there existed a right thing to say. What could you even hope to say to someone whose suffering you had never experienced?

To one that comforts, to another it hurts.

And perhaps, I was just trying to excuse my own vanity in the situation.

A couple of hours flew by in a dismal and dull instant. I was pouring myself some hot cocoa when the door to the guest room opened and Rico came out with leaden steps. Her eyes met mine, but there was no usual nonchalant smile on the lips.