Chaos in the Canvas √

09 | calls

So much more was said in the unsaid.

- Bridgett Devoue

Tuesday - 5:49 am

The first few filtered rays of sun hit Ibrahim's face as he exited the white Mercedes, his eyes dropped down as he locked the car with slowness that was foreign of him. The red and golden reflected from his face in utmost gentleness, the brown of his irises twinkling merrily under it.

Sighing heavily, he let the lids slide upwards but the heaviness he felt was almost physical. Having been sleep deprived for almost three days and nights now, he didn't look anything like the exuberant and well refined Ibrahim Yazdani he was famous for within the confines of conference halls and business world.

Dark circles beneath the eyes, dark stubble grown, shirt creased and boots dusted, Ibrahim Yazdani no where resembled the man who came to Abbottabad less then two weeks ago. This man was absolutely broken in absolute ways, his every breath adding to the burden that crushed his heart into a multitude of pieces.

Everything that had happened in the course of past few days was majorly his fault - the accident, the outcomes. A hundred years would be far too less for him to come to forgive himself for the condition his mother was in right now, for the pain his mother was enduring as she battled for life.

A cold gush of light wind fiddled with the black hair of his and Ibrahim blinked rapidly, as if waking up from a troubled sleep, before raising his head to look at the enormous building of the hospital spreading before his eyes. Inhaling deeply, he took slow but long steps towards the entrance, the crowd of people at the hospital reduced to minimal at this hour.

He had not yet reached the large door when his mobile vibrated in the pocket of his jeans, indicating a call he had no mood to attend. Taking out the phone from the back pocket, he declined to receive the call without as much as glancing in the direction of the caller ID. After a heavy night he had just witnessed, all he needed was to see his mother once and go home to rest for, Allah, he needed it.

Placing the hand on the door, he pushed it with little force, stepping inside the hollowness of hospital wards, the white of the walls casting a shade of pain in him, filling him in with a void he didn't know how to deal with. Eyes fixed ahead, he walked; his gait unhurried, broken and pained.

The mobile vibrated again and he didn't resist the groan that escaped past his lips. Stopping for a fraction of second, he raised his hand holding the phone and looked at the caller ID. The fraction of moment turned into long, heavy seconds as he gazed at the name of the person calling him at this ungodly hour.

Hadeed Khakwani.

Sighing heavily, he scrolled the green icon and placed the phone near his ear, resuming the walk through the dimly lit corridors towards the staircase. The sound of his ankle boots against the marble floor resonated around in the deep silence that prevailed around him, almost too loud.

"Hadeed?" Ibrahim began, ascending the stairs slowly, one at a time.

"Ah, yes. Ibrahim. How are you?" Hadeed fumbled at the other side, his voice dangling between loud and low with each uttered word.

"I'm fine, you?" Ibrahim said, his voice low and unhurried.

"Where are you?" Hadeed questioned hurriedly, instead of replying, and Ibrahim's eyes narrowed infinitesimally in confusion.

"Hospital. I came to see Ammu. Why?" Ibrahim reached the first floor and began his walk deeper into another dark corridor.

Stopping in the middle of the lit corridor, confused and worried at the same time, Ibrahim waited for a response from the other side but it didn't come. A strangled sob, however, came that made Ibrahim shiver slightly as coldness finally found home in him and his eyes widened - in fear.