Gunnah e Shab

11. Colours • رنگ

IM SO FUCKINF SORRY I FORGOT TO UPLOAD AGAIN AAAAAAA

What a treacherous thing to belive that a person is more than a person - John Green

He hadn't dealt with the rejection well —— at all. The proof was the woman he had had sex with last night, using her full brute strength. He was sure to have caused her some damage and was now drowning in eternal guilt. He gazed at the wincing woman, who seemed to be in her early thirties. Despite apologising profusely, Azmaray still felt he had failed. Not a surprise though, lately failing was all that he had been doing. Glancing back at the bruised woman with apologetic eyes, Azmaray exited the bedroom. His heart, heavier than ever.

Each step he took, descending down the stairs of the large home, his sweater thrown over his shoulder casually, Azmaray thought over his life. How had he dwindled into the man he was? What was the meaning of life if he couldn't find satisfaction in anything? Was he meant to live a life, with glass half empty? Where was the mercy, the dawn everyone talked about? And now the overbearing guilt of taking out his frustrations on a woman he had known for barely more than three hours, stabbed his heart.

Ignoring the throb in his head, the pulsating ache, touching the cusp of his jaw. Eyes red with water filling in them as he relaxed his jaw. His teeth grinding against each other with the slow action, his hands skimming the cherry wood railing. He had just one more day left in the city of Gardens, after which, he would be shipped back to his birthplace, the village he was beginning to loathe. The life he was beginning to dread.

The driver passed him a salute as Azmaray slid into the backseat, sliding the sleek black shades on, fingers tightly morphed into a punch. He hit his thigh repeatedly with the butt of his palm, biting his lips as the ache seemed to spread out, chilling him. The neurons in his body seemingly spreading out and turning into a icy cold grip. His hands paling, colour draining out of them as he took deep breaths to stabilise himself. The car moved through the mainly empty streets with a profound smoothness, the soft sounds of the heater, lulled Azmaray to a much needed sleep, the ache in his head long forgotten.

Around fifteen minutes later, the driver knocked on Azmaray's window. They had arrived at the hotel. Rubbing his eyes harshly, he yawned, nodding the mans way before stepping inside the luxurious hotel, the lobby already brimming with life as tourists began to pour in. Meanwhile, he looked like a hot mess, his hair dropping on his forehead, eyes laced with sleep and the broad shoulders hunched —— a vulnerable picture. Nodding towards the bellboy, Azmaray trudged towards the elevators, resting his head against the cool metal walls, feeling the heat that radiated from his head, spread out. After what seemed like eternity, he arrived at his room. His jaw locked in position, the ache finally dulling.

Unfortunately, Azmaray had celebrated too soon. A few steps and the pain was back with full force. It killed him with each step he took, to the point that he felt nauseated. Every small sound, irked him. Fiddling with the keys, Azmaray missed the lock a couple of times before finally succeeding in entering the room. Groaning, he all but threw his shoes onto the floors, jumping onto the large L-shaped couch in the lounging area of the suite, too lazy to even step inside the attached bedroom.

"Where were you?" An annoying voice interrupted him.

Azmaray moaned, shuffling around, his eyes still shut tight, hoping to be left alone.

"Where were you?" This time the voice was closer, more furious.

Azmaray threw up his middle finger in the air, a white flag of peace, to be left alone.