"I think she's dead," Bhairava muttered coldly as he stood, pulling his pants back up with a casual indifference. His eyes glinted with malice as he turned to his gang of rogues, their faces twisted with cruel anticipation. "Kill him too," Bhairava commanded, his voice dripping with disdain. "And make it look like an accident."
Before heading to his car, Bhairava strode back toward Ashwath, who lay battered and nearly broken. With a sickening thud, he grabbed Ashwath's head and slammed it against the car door, causing a second hinge to snap, the door now hanging precariously from its frame. The impact was brutal-Ashwath's body crumpled to the ground, unconscious, his face smeared with blood and caked with mud.
Bhairava sneered at the sight, a twisted satisfaction in his eyes. As he walked away, the rogues began to move, their intentions vile and their actions driven by the darkest urges. One by one, they unzipped their pants, the sinister scene unfolding under the cover of the dark night. The rain began to fall harder, as if the heavens themselves were weeping for the brutality about to be unleashed.
After they had indulged in their vile desires, the rogues retreated from Ahalya's lifeless body, their twisted grins betraying the darkness within. The drops pelting against the ground, creating small, muddy pools around Ashwath, who remained crumpled and unconscious by the side of the jeep. The rogues exchanged glances, a silent agreement passing between them as they moved toward their car.
One of the men, the tallest among them with a jagged scar running down his cheek, opened the trunk and pulled out a dented metal canister of petrol. They walked back toward the jeep, their boots squelching in the thickening mud. Ashwath's body was barely moving, his breathing shallow, face in blood and grime. The jeep, its once-proud frame now battered and teetering on the edge of destruction.
The leader raised the canister slightly, as if testing its weight one last time, while the others stood in a semi-circle around the vehicle, watching with anticipation. Each second that passed was a step closer to the point of no return, the final act of violence that would turn the night into an inferno of death and despair.
***
Dear Death, not today, this isn't your hour,
For I will turn the tables, and show you true power.
Do not wear sorrow, nor bow your head,
For what lies ahead will fill you with dread.
What you will witness, dear Death, take heed,
Will chill even you, and make you recede.
So hold your ground, but know this truth:
Today, dear Death, I'll be the one to choose.
***
Ashwath’s eyes snapped open, a searing pain in his forehead sending a jolt of fire through his skull. Blood, thick and warm, spilled down from the gash, blurring his vision until the world around him spun like a twisted nightmare. His eyelids fluttered, heavy as lead, weighed down by agony and the sheer brutality of what he'd endured. His body was a wreck of bruises, cuts, and fractures, every inch of him screaming in protest with every shallow, ragged breath he took. His cracked lips parted in a gasp, but the air tasted like smoke and blood, and it made him gag.
For a moment, he thought he might collapse back into unconsciousness, but he fought it, teeth gritted against the pain. The rain was a torrential downpour, hammering against the wrecked jeep’s roof in an unrelenting fury. It felt as if the heavens themselves were waging war on the earth below. His hand, slick with blood and grime, reached for the car door, fingers trembling but locked in grim resolve. The cold metal bit into his palm, a sharp reminder that he was still alive, still fighting.
Every muscle screamed in protest as he hoisted himself up, each movement an act of sheer will. He turned his head, the vision in front of him a nightmare unfolding in slow motion. One of the rogues was standing a few feet away, grinning like a predator as he tilted the petrol canister. The liquid poured out, a steady stream of gasoline dripping onto the already-scorched engine. The heat was almost unbearable as it hissed, a wicked, high-pitched shriek that made Ashwath’s bones rattle.
YOU ARE READING
THE END
Action" What we call the beginning is often the end. And to make an end is to make a beginning. The end is where we start from." -T.S. Eliot In the enigmatic town of Kshaya lurks a figure shrouded in infamy: SHAITAN, the most wanted criminal whose true id...
