Till Death Do Us Part | ON-HOLD

Chapter 08 : Taghaful

【 08.

Eight

Taghaful 】

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[ Taghaful • indifference ]

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      ROSALINE’S EYELIDS FLUTTER open for a second, a blurry assortment of colours filling her vision, before they close. A few breaths pass before they open once again, blinking a few times for her vision to clear and the blurriness to dissipate.

From a tiny gap in the curtains, a thin stream of sunlight shines into the otherwise dim room, casting a long but narrow shadow on the carpeted floor. Rosaline’s lips stretch into a lazy, sleepy smile at the sight—how she can see the tiny particles floating in the air where that stretch of glowing light falls across the room, the feel of the comfortable duvets covering her body as her head snuggles further into the soft pillow, and that tiny flutter of gratitude to be able to wake up to yet another simple, ordinary morning.

A soft sigh falls past her lips and she shifts to turn around, with her arm reaching out to the space next to her—and then her body registers the discomfort and dull ache around her abdomen at the same time that her palm comes into contact with a cold emptiness on the other side of the bed.

And just like that, it all comes back crashing down on top of her.

Rosaline’s smile slips off her face within the blink of an eye and she shoots up into a sitting position on the bed, a cry of pain escaping her lips at the sudden and harsh jolt of her body.

But she remembers now. She remembers.

Rosaline remembers that the spot next to her on the bed will always be cold and empty from now on. She remembers that at least for the following week, her abdomen will feel the discomfort and ache if she is to make any sudden, careless movements.

Because Micah is gone. And so is her baby.

A door opens in the distance and Rosaline looks up, still in a hazy state of despair and confusion, and she sees the figure of her mother walk out of the door, wrapped in a white bathrobe with an emblem on the left side of the cloth, just above its pocket.

Rosaline’s eyes squint at the sign on the bathrobe and realises it must belong to some hotel—wait, she’s in a hotel? Her eyes slowly begin sweeping among the furniture in the room she’s in and she eventually looks down at herself on an unfamiliar bed, covered with unfamiliar quilts.

There’s a hand on her chin and a repetitive voice near her ears that she can’t focus on right now.

“Rose!” The voice is higher and much firmer this time around, and Rosaline turns her head, meeting her mother’s concerned eyes—a striking, jewel-like green just like her own ones.

“Mum?” She asks in a hoarse voice, blinking slowly. Confused—so, so confused.

Isabelle Davenport breathes a sigh of relief and drops down on the bed heavily, and Rosaline watches as drops of water from her mother’s hair trails down and soaks the bed.

“I was in the shower and I heard you shout,” her mother tells her in laboured breaths, bringing a hand to her forehead and sighing deeply. “I just ran out—I thought—are you alright? Is it hurting too much? The doctor said the physical ache should start getting duller by now—maybe—Rose! Rose, I’m talking to you—”