Incomplete

Part 7

As I trudged along the road, each step feeling like a Herculean effort, I couldn't help but notice the wary glances from passersby, as though I were contagious with some dreaded affliction. It was almost comical, the way they kept their distance as if fearing to get too close.

Finding a bench by the roadside, I sank down onto it, the weight of exhaustion settling heavily upon me. Taking a moment to hydrate and ease the tension in my muscles, I stretched out on the bench, hoping to steal a few moments of respite.

Garry's behavior today had been unsettling, to say the least. In the past, he had shown no mercy, beating me until I was on the brink of unconsciousness. But today was different. He had stopped short of pushing me over the edge, his demeanor oddly troubled, as though something was gnawing at him from within.

Despite the passage of a decade since we had last spoken, I still found myself able to read him like an open book. There was a time when we had been inseparable, playing childhood games where he would take on the role of my protective older brother. He had relished that role, embracing the responsibility with a fervor that bordered on obsession.

As I lay on the bench, lost in a haze of confusion and exhaustion, a strange sensation washed over me. The hardness of the bench beneath me seemed to melt away, replaced by an inexplicable softness. The air around me felt warm and comforting, and the pain that had been my constant companion began to ebb away.

With a sense of trepidation, I slowly opened my eyes, half-expecting to find myself in the throes of a vivid dream. But to my astonishment, I found myself in a different place altogether. I was lying in the backseat of a car, a jacket draped over my body, my wounds already treated.

A rush of realization flooded over me as memories of a similar situation from a week ago came flooding back. This was the same car that had come to my rescue before. Sitting up, I surveyed my surroundings, a mixture of gratitude and confusion swirling within me.

With a newfound sense of lightness, I gathered my belongings and prepared to leave. But as I reached to return the jacket to the car, a dilemma presented itself. Should I seek out the person who had saved me not once, but twice, and offer my thanks in person? Or should I simply slip away as I had done before?

After a moment's hesitation, I resolved to wait. It wouldn't feel right to leave without expressing my gratitude to my mysterious savior. So, with patience and gratitude in my heart, I decided to bide my time until the opportunity presented itself to thank them in person.

As the hours ticked by, I found myself seated on the grassy banks of Swan Lake, the moon casting its ethereal glow upon the tranquil waters. The passage of time seemed to blur together, and as the night wore on, my hunger and dizziness only grew more pronounced.

Despite my initial resolve to wait, doubts began to creep in. What if there was no savior after all? What if my hopes had been nothing more than a product of my own wishful thinking?

As the clock struck midnight with no sign of anyone approaching, a sense of disappointment settled over me like a heavy blanket. Perhaps they had no intention of meeting me, of acknowledging the debt I owed them for their kindness.

With a heavy heart, I reached for a piece of paper and began to write a simple note of thanks. Placing it inside the car, I felt a pang of resignation wash over me. It seemed my hopes of expressing my gratitude in person were not to be fulfilled.

Standing there in the moonlit night, tears threatening to spill from my eyes, I felt a surge of anger welling up within me. Why had they bothered to save me if they had no intention of facing me? Why offer a lifeline only to leave me feeling abandoned and alone?

Turning away, I began to walk once more, the weight of my emotions dragging me down. Despite my attempts to push the feelings aside, I couldn't shake the sense of emptiness that now consumed me.

I feel that the car and I both abandon the one we love!

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The news about Garry's selection as the Alpha Knife Commander position, despite his troubling behavior towards the weaker members of the pack, weighed heavily on my mind as I sat by the window, lost in the pages of an old favorite book. It seemed that despite his flaws, Garry possessed the strength and intelligence required for the role, and he had evidently handled the situation with skill and finesse.

Lost in my thoughts, I was interrupted by my mother's voice calling out from outside the door, breaking the silence that enveloped the room.

"Krish, we need to talk," she said, her tone serious and measured.

Setting aside my book, I rose from my seat and made my way to the door, a sense of apprehension gnawing at me. I couldn't help but wonder what this conversation would entail, knowing that my mother rarely sought me out for such discussions unless they were of utmost importance. With a deep breath, I braced myself for whatever news or revelations awaited me on the other side of the door.

The weight of my mother's words hung heavy in the air as I stood before her, feeling the familiar sting of rejection gnawing at my heart. Her concerns centered not on me, her own son, but on Khushi, my younger sister, and the potential impact my presence could have on her future.

Listening in silence, I couldn't help but feel a pang of hurt at the implication that I was somehow a threat to Khushi's happiness and well-being. My own mother saw me as little more than a liability, someone to be kept at arm's length for fear of tainting my sister's future prospects.

As she spoke, tears welled up in her eyes, a stark reminder of the pain and worry that plagued my family. My father's declining health, Khushi's impending coming of age, and the looming specter of rejection all weighed heavily on her mind.

With a heavy heart, I nodded in understanding, unable to find the words to express the hurt and frustration that simmered beneath the surface. Once she had left, I retreated to the solitude of the washroom, seeking solace in the anonymity of my tears.

But as always, I emerged from my brief moment of vulnerability with a mask firmly in place, burying my pain beneath a facade of stoicism. This was the reality of my existence, a constant battle against the perceptions and expectations of those around me. And though their words cut deep, I refused to let them define me.