Chapter 123 : trauma

With a flourish, Farah opened the lunch box, revealing a juicy burger nestled amidst a bed of crisp lettuce and fluffy fries. She reached for a packet of red chili sauce and squeezed the red chilli sauce over burger. 

But the act, mundane as it seemed, triggered a chain reaction within Ava. The sight of the red sauce, dripping and glistening, inexplicably transported her back to a scene far more chilling. The scene of the cemetery flashed before her eyes.....

Memories, like unwelcome guests, barged into her mind. The guards, crumpled on the cold ground, their uniforms stained crimson, the color a horrifying echo of the sauce on Farah's burger. The memory resurfaced with vivid clarity, fueled by the crimson hue of the chili sauce.

Farah, oblivious to the storm brewing within her friend, continued to squeeze the sauce with cheerful abandon. The sound was like nails on a chalkboard, grating against Ava's already frayed nerves.

Farah extended the burger, "Here you go, Ava! I even got your favorite sauce."

But to Ava's disoriented mind, it wasn't a burger anymore. It was a piece of raw, bloody meat, the red sauce a grotesque mockery of the blood that had spilled that night. The image was horrifying in her mind, as if Farah had offered her a piece of flesh with blood. The texture of the meat seemed unnaturally soft and tender, as if it still retained the warmth of life. It seemed to pulsate, as though the very essence of life still coursed through its gruesome form.

Ava's mind played tricks on her. She could almost hear the faint dripping sound on ground. The blood was thick and sticky, staining Farah's outstretched hand. 

The very thought of taking a bite made her stomach churn, a wave of nausea rising like a tidal wave. The smell, once appetizing, now reeked of iron and death.

Ava clenched her fists so tightly that her nails dug into her palms, leaving crescent-shaped imprints. Her breath hitched, each inhale a struggle against the tightening grip of panic. She tried to fight back the rising tide of nausea. Her body trembled, a silent scream trapped inside.

"Ava? You okay? You doesn't look good." Farah's concerned gaze snapped Ava back to the present. Words wouldn't come, so she simply placed a hand over her mouth. The urge of vomit overwhelmed and she bolted from the classroom, her legs carrying her on autopilot.

Worried Farah rushed after her. The burger was dropped from her hand, the red sauce staining the floor. 

Outside Ava's guard witnessed the sudden commotion, mirrored Farah's actions, his confusion urging him to follow without hesitation.

But the ladies' washroom door slammed shut behind Ava and Farah, leaving the guard standing awkwardly outside. He couldn't go inside a ladies washroom. 

Farah emerged moments later. "Water bottle, quick! From the cafeteria! She's throwing up!" she blurted out, her voice trembling.

And without saying a word, the guard sprinted towards the cafeteria. He returned moments later, water bottle in hand, only to find Farah pacing outside the washroom.

She took the water bottle and went inside the washroom again. Ava was vomiting inside a toilet room. The door was locked from inside, so Farah couldn't do anything but to wait. 

Farah's mind raced. What had triggered this sudden episode? Ava had seemed perfectly fine just moments ago.

Moments later, the bathroom door creaked open. Ava, pale and shaken, emerged. Farah rushed to Ava's side, "Hey, are you okay?"

Ava leaned against the cool ceramic of the besin, staring at her pale reflection in the mirror. She couldn't speak anything. She didn't have any energy.

"Drink some water," Farah urged, holding out the bottle. Ava took a small sip, the cool liquid soothing her parched throat.

"I want to go home." Ava murmured.

...

The afternoon sun slanted through the bedroom window. Ibrahim sprawled on the bed after a late lunch. His left arm, bandaged and encased in a sling pouch, rested awkwardly across his chest. His usual sharp attire was replaced by a casual t-shirt and loose sweatpants. His hair remained slightly tousled.

Ibrahim held the laptop precariously on his lap, his right hand flying across the keyboard with practiced ease despite the awkwardness of the one-handed operation. The frown etched on his brow wasn't due to discomfort, but rather the concentration demanded by the complex financial report he was tackling. Every now and then, he'd pause, rub his tired eyes, and let out a low sigh, the frustration of the injury evident in the way he tried to shift his weight against the headboard in search of a more comfortable position.

Just then, the bedroom door creaked open and Ava entered. Ibrahim's head snapped up, surprise flashing across his face. It was unusual for her to return from university so early. Had something happened at university? He watched silently as she tossed her backpack onto a chair with a dull thud, a hint of tension in her movements.

Ava moved towards the closet, rummaging through clothes, before pulling out a comfortable-looking dress. Then she disappeared into the bathroom.

Ibrahim closed his laptop, a sense of unease settling in his gut. He assumed she was simply changing. But a few minutes later, the sound of the shower made him tensed. 

"Again?" he murmured, a frown creasing his brow. Ava had showered before leaving for university. What prompted another one?

Unable to sit idle, he snatched his phone and dialed the number of the guard who always stationed inside the university building. Ibrahim came to know that Ava had vomited but the guard knew nothing further. 

Ibrahim couldn't able to know what happened inside classrooms. His mind conjured scenarios. Had something happened at the university?

Finally, the bathroom door opened, and Ava emerged. Ibrahim rose from the bed and rushed towards her. Her face was pale, drawn, her usually vibrant eyes dull and distant. "Ava, are you alright?"

She offered a faint nod, but her eyes held a haunted quality. He reached out, taking her hand gently. It was cold, clammy.

"Tell me what happened," he urged, his hand reaching out to brush a strand of her wet hair from her cheek.

"Nothing," she mumbled, attempting to walk past him, but he blocked her path. 

"Ava, baby girl," he said, his voice softening further, "tell me. I need to know. What happened?"

Ava flinched, pulling away from his touch. "What happened?" she echoed, her voice rising in frustration. "You want to know? Fine, I'll tell you!"

She took a deep breath, "Blood. I see blood everywhere. In food, in water, even in the air! It's like the scene at the cemetery is replaying in my head, over and over again! Everywhere I look I see nothing but blood!" Her voice cracked, raw with emotion.

Tears welled up in her eyes, spilling over onto her cheeks. With trembling hands, she grabbed his arm, her grip surprisingly tight, oblivious to the wince that escaped his lips as her fingers unknowingly pressed against his wounded arm.

"They talk," she continued, her voice trembling with anger and hurt. "They question my character. I have to show my character certificate to them that I didn't married you for money. Even I hardly knew anything about your money while marrying you. Do you know how much it hurts, Ibrahim? To be judged for something I had no control over?"

Ibrahim stood frozen, his heart heavy with guilt and regret. He nails were digging deep into his wound, sending a sharp spike of pain through him. He remained silent, absorbing the storm raging within her. Neither of them paid any attention. 

Ava's voice rose, laced with a bitter mix of anger and despair. "My life is ruined, Ibrahim! You ruined it! Why did you marry me? Everything changed after you married me. My life was simple before marriage. I didn't have to see any murder. Why, Ibrahim....."

Ava trailed off when she felt something sticky in her hand. Her eyes widened in horror when she looked down at her hand, her fingers stained a crimson red. Panic replaced the anger in her gaze as she realized the source of the blood.

She looked down at Ibrahim's arm, the blood from his wound seeping through the white bandage.

A jolt of shock jolted her back to reality. Pulling away, she stared at her crimson-stained hand. She had been so consumed by her own pain that she hadn't noticed she was hurting him.

"Oh my god," she whispered, her voice trembling with guilt. "I... I didn't mean to..."

"It's alright, Ava," Ibrahim rasped, wincing as he tried to flex his injured hand. "Don't worry about it. I'll just change the bandage. Nothing happened."

But Ava wasn't convinced. Her eyes darted between his face and the bleeding wound, the sight fueling her growing fear. "Nothing happened?" she cried, her voice laced with disbelief. "It's bleeding so much! Oh God..."

Tears streamed down her face, each drop mirroring the blood staining his bandage. Her mind, already fractured by the trauma and Jessica's comment, struggled to cope with the added shock. She frantically searched the drawers, her trembling hands knocking over objects in a desperate search for the first-aid kit. Her mind, clouded with worry, couldn't seem to recall its usual location.

Ibrahim's heart ached for her. She wasn't in her right mind. Gently, he reached out with his uninjured hand and grasped her arm.

"Ava, listen to me," he said, his voice firm yet soothing. "It's okay. It was an accident. You didn't do anything wrong. Accidents happen okay. You did nothing. Just breathe."

He tried to calm her. It seemed Ava needs more support though Ibrahim's hand was heavily breathing. 

Looking at him, Ava murmured, "You... you should go to the hospital, Or call a doctor. Wait... I'll call Samir! What should..... What should I do?"

Her frantic words betrayed her state of mind. The trauma, the guilt, the weight of the situation – it had pushed her to the edge. She couldn't think straight, let alone make rational decisions. 

Even Aliya wasn't at mansion from morning. She had gone for a exhibition. So Ibrahim had to keep calm Ava anyhow. 

He cupped her face in his uninjured hand, his thumb gently wiping away a stray tear. "Relax, love," he said softly. "I'm calling a doctor right now. Everything will be fine, I promise."

....

The male doctor finished tightening the last stitch on Ibrahim's hand, his movements efficient yet gentle. He removed his gloves and turned towards Samir, who stood anxiously near the bed. Ibrahim told Ava not to come as seeing blood she would be more scared. 

"Alright," the doctor began, his voice calm and reassuring. "The wound is closed and the stitches should hold well. Keep it clean and dry for the next few days, and avoid strenuous activities with your left arm."

Samir ever the efficient one, interjected, "Thank you, Doctor. We appreciate you coming over on short notice."

The doctor nodded curtly while carefully applying a fresh bandage. "Just doing my job. Please come back in a week to get the stitches removed. The pain should be manageable with over-the-counter medication if it bothers you."

With a final nod, the doctor gathered his equipment and excused himself and left the bedroom.

Ibrahim shifted slightly on the bed, wincing at the dull ache in his arm.

"Any news?" he asked Samir, his voice raspy. He lay propped up on pillows.

Samir perched on the edge of the bed, "Yeah, I called Farah. Apparently, a girl named Jessica was throwing shade at Ava. And then, Farah offered Ava some food, and she threw up. That's all."

Ibrahim sighed, running a hand through his already ruffled hair. "Things are getting complicated," he muttered, more to himself than to Samir. "Ava wasn't herself today… too agitated. Disturbed, almost frantic. We need to do something to get her mind off things."

He paused, "Organize a two-day trip for the architecture department. A change of scenery might do her good. I'll cover all the expenses, discreetly of course." 

Samir nodded slowly. "That could work. But there's one thing. Farah wants revenge on this Jessica girl. They apparently have some history, and while Farah doesn't want her dead..." he trailed off, leaving the sentence unfinished.

Ibrahim kept his silence for a moment, not out of surprise, but to fully comprehend Samir's implication. "We don't do that kind of work, Samir. You know that."

Samir sighed, "I know. But... I can't say no to Farah. I'll do anything for her." 

Ibrahim's gaze hardened. "Then make sure this 'incident' never sees the light of day. No headlines, no whispers, nothing. Make it disappear. As if it never happened."

Samir nodded curtly. "Understood, brother."

"Alright," Ibrahim said slowly. "But… what about Ava's family home? Any progress there?"

Samir shook his head. "No luck. I've offered him double the market value, approached him multiple times, but he refuses to budge. Stubborn old man, Baran Ali." 

Frustration flickered in Ibrahim's eyes. He had hoped to return the house to Ava. The bank had seized the property after her parents' passing due to unpaid loans, and the subsequent auction had placed it in Baran Ali's hands. Ibrahim wanted to buy the house. Buying it back wasn't just about the house, it was about restoring a piece of her stolen life. 

He clenched his bandaged fist, muttering under his breath, "I have to do something... I have to. I can't just let it go." 

Samir offered a solution. "Why not buy her another house? Money isn't an issue for us."

Ibrahim gazed out at the window at the fading sunlight, "I could build her a mansion, Samir, one made of diamonds if I wanted. But that's not what Ava wants. She doesn't care about price tags. I want to give her back what she lost. It's the memories, the connections, that matter to her."

Samir reached into his pocket, the metallic gleam of the lighter catching the sunlight as he extracted it and a pack of cigarettes followed. He flicked open the lighter with a practiced snap, a tiny flame spiking to life. Exhaling a plume of smoke, he took a long drag, the cherry glowing embers in the dim room.

He offered the pack to Ibrahim, the gesture habitual. Ibrahim shook his head with a tired smile.

"If Ava walks in and sees me smoking," he rasped, "she'll launch into a two-hour lecture about the evils of tobacco and secondhand smoke. Trust me, I'm not in the mood for a health seminar just yet."

Samir burst out laughing. "The man who used to smoke five, six cigarettes a day is refusing one? You're slipping, brother," he teased.

Ibrahim sighed. "Alright, alright," he conceded, reaching out for the offered stick. "Just one, though."

He hadn't quit entirely, but he'd drastically reduced his smoking after Ava's persistent pleas. He managed to cut down to two, maybe three cigarettes a day. But right now, with the throbbing pain in his hand and the weight of their recent troubles, a cigarette felt oddly comforting.

Just then, the door creaked open, revealing Ava holding a plate of sliced fruit. She stood as she saw the lit cigarette dangling between Ibrahim's lips.

Ibrahim froze, caught red-handed. With his injured left arm, he awkwardly tried to sit up straighter, the movement making him wince.

With a frown, Ava approached and placed the plate on the bedside table with a thud that startled Samir. Her anger was palpable, her eyes blazing.

She didn't waste words on Ibrahim. Instead, she turned to Samir, her voice cold and laced with a thinly veiled threat.

"Once he finishes his cigarette, cut the fruit for him. And make sure they're bite-sized, considering he only has one usable hand."

With a final jab, she stabbed the fruit-knife into a guava, the metallic clang resonating with the unspoken tension. Samir gulped, while Ibrahim mentally kicked himself. He knew he'd messed up big time.

"Yes, sister-in-law," Samir stammered, his voice barely above a whisper.

Without another word, Ava stormed out of the room, leaving behind a heavy silence and the acrid scent of burning tobacco.

 Ibrahim stared at the cigarette in his hand, the urge to smoke suddenly gone, "Damn Man!" He cursed himself under his breath.