Elysium

Chapter 8

Murtasim watched his reflection in the mirror with a cold detachment. The blisters and minor cuts on his face had turned a dark red. Starting from the edges of the tightly wrapped bandage over his forehead, they trailed over his left cheek—an annoying reminder of how he was dragged through the shattered glass during the rescue operation.

The trimmer whirred in his left hand as he continued to scrutinize his visage. His beard and moustache had outgrown their usual length and had turned into what he could only call a shaggy mess. Having never been a fan of haggard caveman looks, Murtasim had spent the past fifteen minutes trimming and grooming his facial hair. But since his right hand was still out of commission and would continue to be so for the foreseeable future, Murtasim had relied solely upon the capability of his left hand and had recently accepted the fact that there were certain angles that his left hand refused to bend in. Murtasim squinted at the small, irregular patches near his jawline and then reluctantly gave up. No one would dare be that close to him anyway.

But his gaze was again drawn to the reflection in the bathroom mirror. Despite having been knocked out by pain medications for the past couple of days, dark purple eye bags adorned his face. Despite being back home and in his room, sleep still eluded him. It was funny how even post-surgery medications could not put his brain to rest.

Murtasim stared at the man in the mirror. A proud man, the head of a powerful clan, one who lacked nothing, blessed and powerful. But looking at him now, Murtasim could not feel the raging power and confidence that he usually exuded. This man standing right in front of him was exhausted. His skin was pale, a light gray sheen taking over his once robust skin tone. His shoulders were slouched, and his eyes were haunted.

Murtasim closed his eyes, trying to reign in his wandering thoughts, but Meerab's words plowed through his mental barriers, once again taking center stage in his mind. One thing he loved about his wife was that she was not one to back down from confrontations. No, she took the bull by its horns, at least when it came to him. She went after what she wanted, most often throwing caution to the wind, which made her actions more reckless than not. But unlike him, she did not choose the easy route. She did not latch onto the slightest green signal and then live in a delusional bubble, pretending as if all was well in their world. And God knows that he was just about to do the same thing after waking up to a warm and caring Meerab at the hospital.

It would not have taken him more than a second to sweep everything that had occurred in the past under the rug and start a new journey with her. But even in his despair, the small rational part of him knew that it would end in an even worse situation than the present. But for once in life, Murtasim Khan was too desperate, too starved, that he would have risked a perilous future for the solace of the present.

But Meerab had stood firm. She had asked the right questions. She had spoken her truth. Called him out on his lies and manipulations. And just like every time when it came to her, Murtasim Khan was rendered speechless.

Meerab Murtasim Khan. The name left his lips in a sweet whisper, soothing his trudging heart. As much as he loved to address her by her married name, he knew that he did not have the right. They were married in the eyes of law, god, and society. And she had, in the midst of their argument last time, even acknowledged him as her husband. But the real question was, did she acknowledge herself as his wife?

She had stayed with him during his hospital stay and had followed him like a shadow, caring and nurturing, refusing to leave him alone. He had happily lapped up the attention and care, but deep down, he did not know what to make of her sudden positive shift. Was this a possible green light for their relationship, or was she just being a decent human being, aiding an injured man—someone she shared a legal relationship with?