" I'm sor-"
"DON'T, JUST DON'T SAY IT. YOU DO NOT EVEN DESERVE TO SAY IT AFTER WHAT YOU HAVE DONE TO ME! I BEGGED YOU, SCREAMED AND PLEAD, BUT YOU DIDN'T HEED MY WORDS. THEN WHY SHOULD I!"
I yelled with tears streaming down my face when witnessing m...
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My mind was a void, an empty expanse where thoughts struggled to take form. The revelations about my past crashed over me like relentless waves, each one carrying the weight of truths I wasn't ready to face. The story of my mother and father, their lives stolen by a man consumed by obsession, played in my head like a grainy, relentless videotape. The abuse I endured as a child, the torment that shadowed my every step, the reason I was left an orphan, and it all traced back to one person. And why? Because my mother chose my father over him, a man whose obsession twisted into something dark and vengeful.
I could still see that day, etched in vivid, agonizing detail. My father, lifeless on the ground, his eyes wide open, unseeing, his hands still clutching my mother as if he could protect her even in death. My mother, her wails tearing through the air as she cradled his head to her chest, her grief a raw, living thing. Then the second shot, the one that silenced her forever. In that moment, I became an orphan, a child adrift in a world that felt colder, crueler, with every passing second.
Now, here I was, confined to a sterile hospital room, an IV drip tethered to my arm, its steady drip a quiet reminder of my fragility. Across the room sat Adithya bhai, his arms bandaged, his face a mask of stoic silence. We hadn't spoken, the weight of our shared trauma pressing down on us both. The silence stretched, heavy and unspoken, until I could bear it no longer.
"How is he?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
Adithya sighed, his shoulders slumping slightly. "He's in the ICU. The doctors removed the bullet, but he's still unconscious. They say he might wake up in the next 48 hours."
I exhaled, a shaky breath escaping me. "Did you tell Sharmila?"
"Yes," he replied, his voice steady but tired. "They're all coming to the hospital to see you and him."
Him. The man who had tormented me, who had made my life a living hell because of a mistaken identity. The same man who later shielded me, brought me into his home to keep me safe from the very evil he once embodied. Now, he lay in another room, fighting for his life after taking a bullet to save me. My mind churned, caught in a tangle of conflicting emotions. Who was he to me now? A villain? A savior? The man who had caused me so much pain, yet risked everything to protect me?
Yesterday, he was the source of my suffering, punishing me for sins I never committed. But today, he was the one who had thrown himself in front of danger to preserve my life. What was I supposed to feel? Pity? Gratitude? Guilt for the sacrifice he made? Or nothing at all? I wanted to feel nothing, to keep my heart guarded, as I had done for so long. I had kept my distance, built walls to protect myself from him. Yet, he kept coming after me, seeking forgiveness, shielding me from threats, and now, lying in a hospital bed because of me. What was I supposed to do with that?
Every time I considered forgiving him, letting go of the past, the memories of his cruelty flooded back. The times he made me suffer, pushed me to the brink, locked me in that cold, suffocating room where I thought I might die. They clawed at me, holding me back. Did he deserve my forgiveness? Then I'd remember his face, raw with remorse, begging for a chance to make things right. Those moments made me question everything, leaving me torn between anger and a reluctant empathy.
