This Love Must Go On

Deborah

Deborah

Feeling my arms hug something really soft and firm at the same time, I felt suspicious. With one eye, I assured myself it was a body pillow and then another sprung open with unrestrained wonder. Okay, what's this place? Everything felt as whimsical and awe-inspiring as the work of a veteran film art director. A figment of my imagination urged me to believe that I'd accidentally stumbled upon a grand movie set. Maybe God had changed courses for me and finally paved a royal road for me to the silver screen by gifting me a starring role. The storyline went like this I was abducted by a hot mafia in his majestic villa. But my hopes were dashed and my dreams shattered like before. Nothing surprised me although. Funnily enough, failures had started giving me more orgasms than sex.

Each corner of the room was elevated with some dećor-savvy pieces. The round, Swarovski chandelier with dripping crystals right in the centre of the bedroom - perfect!

The side table on which sat a jug with a modern charm for midnight thirst - perfect!

The furniture picked up from a high-end store for a small room showcased refined taste - perfect!

And, the sliding door on one side that only God knew led to which paradise.

But something turned me off. Being an impulsive person myself, the passivity around made it appear rather the least active area of the home. And it was also hard for me to come terms to with the cleanliness quotient. The entire room had been cleaned with gallons of bleach for that matter. I feared that some Elitist would open the door with full force and would drag me out, given, that I looked so erratic, foreign and out of sync.

Ever since my childhood days, I'd been accustomed to a house where the batshit news anchor's full-throated headlines blared over the breakfast table when no one had anything to say and ultimate brawls between brothers ended the night in a routine. Also, my latest rented pad had been home to a chaotic frenzy of people even past midnight; a comforting realisation that I wasn't away from my home always stayed with me. But this place forced me to wonder about such a class of people who lived in such fancy prisons and called it a life.

I jumped to my bare feet on the rug displaying Japanese motifs and a nerve in my head trembled for a temporary second. I clamped my head with one hand and felt the rough texture of something that was tied to my head.

That accident.

Instantly, I plucked an oval hand mirror from the premium console table to find my favourite brick-brown lipstick remnants and a fudgy dot of dried blood on the pristine white cloth. It gave me a sick feeling, I wanted to rip it off because I felt okay. My head worked just fine as I could remember Burak pulling a revolver on me and how I was borderline got under that car's wheels, and the guy who probably got me here along with an old man's assistance. The memory of a smooth ride in his car was still intact. Albeit my body felt a little warm in tension. But the time was precious as I had more important tasks on my hands. First of all, I had to figure out, who these kindful and generously rich people were.

I pushed open the door and walked through the collonaded balcony. It felt like a different world of its own. En route to finding a person to assist me to the exit gate respectfully, I took in the colour scheme of coffee browns, forest green and frosty white with googled-eyes. The place dealt with ornate lighting and elephantine structures. It showed the conscious effort made whoever made it look so immaculate.

However, no one seemed to be on the horizon. Then I reached out to a huge window that offered unobstructed vistas of a small but well-manicured lawn.