Bitter Sweet | ✓ (rewriting)

03 • ankhain | آنکھیں

•| eyes |•

•••
aapse jis qadar humari nazrein mili ,
hum to usi qadar deewane ho gaye.
•••

The night brought an unrelenting darkness that wrapped around bodies, burying them beneath a starless sky. The air had thickened, the temperature dropped and nowhere was there a comforting sound.

In this eerie silence of the night, within numerous scattered paper documents sat Zarrar Hamidi. Still dressed in his formals; a wrinkled white dress shirt rested modestly against his broad shoulders and the first few buttons were clasped open revealing a derisory part of his chiseled chest. He groaned leaning back in his chair as his long black pant clad legs stretched forward seeking relief.

His muscles felt sore from being in the unvarying position for too long. He ran a hand over his tired sleep deprived face, his grey eyes held a weakened thunder as they threatened to droop shut behind his black rimmed spectacles. Dark eye bags decorated his face, adding to his rugged looks.

Stretching his arms behind his neck he stood up and walked over to the enormous glass window behind him, the whole city could be seen from his office. The city lights twinkled, almost seemingly like stars had fallen to the ground. It looked like God's painting, A way of showing how people still are dreaming.

Pulling out a cigarette from within his pocket, he placed it between his lips as he toyed with the lighter. His eyes still strained on the city ahead of him.
Finally igniting the toxic stick between his lips, he sighed as the strong creeping stench filled the air around him. Slow poison.

Could there be any more lame symbol of the era of addiction over true moral choice than the cigarette? Perhaps.
He wasn't a chain-smoker, in fact he only ever smoked when he felt extremely frustrated or worn out. Which nevertheless was quite often. If he himself gave it much thought, he wasn't the worst of men to exist out there. Pretty unpretentious right?

Apart from the shit-ton load of work that was piled on his head, that was the reason for his derailment.
Precisely a woman.

He couldn't discard the image of her lifeless eyes from his subconscious mind. They were haunting his every thought after all.
Her hazel eyes were a melt of autumn tones, fending off the winter frost. Freckles, light, delicate; sprinkled softly on her sun-kissed cheeks.

He couldn't help, but found himself wondering.
How beautiful would they look when she cried, when her gentleness flowed over her cheeks? Ew, now he sounded like a creep. The toxic fumes were surely getting to his brain, but still he continued breathing down the smoke, nevertheless.

He had expected her to cry, to shed at least one tear, afterall it was her father's funeral.Yet, she didn't. At Least not until he was around. She left him admiring her beauty, her strength.

Had it not been for his father, he wouldn't have attended the funeral. He was in the city because of a business conference and he intended for it to be a short trip, but apparently Late General Rashid Mahmoud was a dear friend of his father's. He had never met the man or even heard of him, until a few weeks back, but his father was very disheartened when the unfortunate news arrived so he assumed they were indeed very close acquaintances who had possibly fallen out over the years.

His heart skipped a thousand beats as he thought about the hazel eyed beauty, who had managed to make his heart go irrational with just one sight. He had heard from one of the ladies at the funeral that she was an orphan now. Both her parents were dead and she had no siblings. Thinking about her future brought an appalling horror across his body. What was to happen to her now?