Page 78 of Mrs. Pandey
PRASHANT
I looked at her as she lay in bed, her head wrapped in gauze. The doctor had said the wound wasn't deep, that it would heal in a week. But what if it didn't? What if I killed her next time? I had hurt her, not once, not twice, but three damn times. I always lost control, always ended up hurting her, not just physically but deep inside, where bruises didn't fade.
I knew she felt it. She'd felt it that first day when I threw her. She didn't see the man she'd once known three years ago, she saw the monster I had become. She thought it was just an accident.
It wasn't an accident. It was my trauma. My haunted memories, the pressure, the rage, the ghosts of those bastards who slaughtered my soldiers. They were gone, but their shadows still clawed at me. My brothers-in-arms, lifeless eyes, cold bodies, I carried them in my head like unwanted passengers. I couldn't fight them there. I couldn't let them go.
I always lost control. I was filled with so much wrath I forgot who I was talking to. Ira, my wife, the woman I loved more than anything had become the victim of my fury.
She thought things would get better, but what she didn't know was that everything was only getting worse.
I glanced at the papers with Ira's name on them, my house papers and they burned me. They burned my pride, my so-called masculine ego. I had been unable to free this house forten fucking years, but she had done it in just one month. She paid the whole damn amount without my consent. God, I never wanted her money. I never wanted her to step in like that. All I ever wanted was to give her the happiness she deserved, and all I had done was fail, over and over again.
I reached out and gently brushed her hair from her face, studying her as though I could memorize every line. She had changed so much since the day she walked into this house. She was thinner now, fragile, her skin pale like paper. She had embraced the life I lived, leaving behind the comfort and luxury she'd grown up with in her father's house. It had been almost two months. Two months of me asking myself, was I able to make her happy?
All she had done in those two months was spend her money on my house. I knew she hadn't meant to hurt me, but she had. She hurt me by renovating this place. She hurt me by paying it off. She hurt me because she had let me hurt her.
I wondered what had happened to the old Ira, the one who never took shit from anyone. The one who could cut down arrogance with a single glare. Why did she now swallow every cruel word with that hollow smile, as if nothing mattered more than keeping the peace? This was not my Ira.
Her eyes fluttered open. She blinked at the white ceiling, confusion flickering across her face before realization settled in. She turned her head toward me.
"Prashant..." she whispered, her voice barely audible. "How long have you been sitting here?" She glanced at the window, where sunlight filtered in, throwing gold across the bed.
"I don't know," I said. I had been there for twelve hours, unable to move away from her. I was still sitting there when the doctor dressed her wound and she was unconscious. "Maybe a couple of hours."
Disappointment flashed across her face.
"How are you feeling?" I asked.
"I'm okay." She smiled faintly and touched the white gauze. "I don't even feel this thing on my head."
"Don't lie," I said coldly. "You should have some rest."
I was about to stand up when she reached for me, her hand gripping mine.
"It was just an accident..."
"Please don't…” My jaw tightened. "It wasn't an accident. I fucking hit you." I grabbed her shoulders, staring hard into her eyes. "You hear me? I fucking hit you."
And then I saw it. The fear in her eyes. It gutted me.
I swallowed hard, shut my eyes, and pressed my forehead against hers. I felt her skin. I felt her breath. I felt her broken soul. I felt everything I had done to her.
"I'm scared, Ira," I whispered, my voice breaking. "What if I..." I couldn't finish. I just kissed her temple, tasting the salt of my own sweat.
"We can both fight through this, can't we?" she murmured, wrapping her arms around my back. "I never meant to hurt you. I never meant to take your house. I swear."
"I always wanted this house for my father," I said, my breath unsteady. "But he died. This house... it was his last wish, his last dream. When you paid it off, it felt like you mocked my capability, my competence. It made me feel worthless, Ira. Like you took away my father's last dream."
"I'm sorry..."
"Please don't say sorry," I said softly, running my fingers through her hair.
"Please talk to me."
"I am talking," I said with a sad smile.
"Tell me something funny."
