Izzat An-Nisa (Pakistani Short Stories)

Hadsaa Part 4 🌸

Dawud sighed, staring at Almas as he usually found himself doing. In the past few weeks, she'd been incredibly silent. After that night she'd confessed how scared she was, she had become more open but somehow, she was now more guarded than before. When he touched her, she froze up, and he felt terrified that he'd do something against her will.

Even now, she folded clothes, her silky hair in a pony-tail but it was her colorless face, the rosiness gone from her cheeks that he was noting. He set aside his laptop on the night stand, running a hand through his hair.

"Almas. Kya hua hai?" He finally asked, not missing the forlorn look in her eyes as she simply uttered, 'Nothing' and walked into the dressing room.

He cursed under his breath. 10 months. They'd been married ten months and his wife still didn't open up. He barely knew anything about her. They'd only exchange a few words here and there. Why? What was he doing wrong? Was there something she wasn't telling him?

He stood up, following her into the dressing room and placing his hands on her waist, moving her towards him. "Don't lie."

She only pushed back, restraint marking each motion of hers. "I'm not. I need to get some work done so please let me go."

Dawud tilted her chin upwards, trying to kiss her lips but she turned her head, so that they landed on her cheek. Her obvious rejection hurt him, bruised his pride and he looked at her with a guarded expression of his own.

"Alright. Go. I won't bother you."

But she only stared, her eyes so full of despair he almost wanted to hold her and he almost did, but then remembered that she wasn't so inclined to touch him.

///

Almas sat down, cursing her anemia as she felt lightheaded, palming her forehead to find her skin a little cold. She'd been making dinner when this bout of tiredness had fallen over her and she was quick to find the sofa in the lounge, sitting on it. As she felt her breathing return to normal, she laid down. Suddenly, the fatigue caught up to her and she fell asleep.

When she awoke, she was moving, held tightly in the arms of her husband. If one could even call him that. How long was he waiting to divorce her? Five years? More? Less?

He laid her onto the bed and she kept her eyes closed, waiting for him to move away but he seemed to sit besides her. These days, she kept to her side, and after warding off his touches, he seemed to have become just as uninterested, keeping to his as well.

Her heart, her body ached for him. But her self-respect screamed at her to hold onto what remained of her dignity. Coupled with her hissy mood these days, she had managed to create a rift between them.

Dawud only kissed her cheeks, moving to her nose and then her lips and then her forehead, drawing the covers over her and switching off the light.

When he left the room, she bit her lip to keep from crying. How can he play her like this? How can he make her feel like maybe he loves her too only to leave her used in the end?

///

It was painful to not talk to her, but he was upset with her coldness. Dawud missed her warmth, her affection, the few words she shared with him and the million ways they communicated other than words. She seemed to punishing him for no reason. He was trying desperately hard to show her he cared because he did.

33 years spent in this world of which 18 were in isolation. Constantly worried about the only family he had stealing away his inheritance, his familial home. Several ploys directed towards his death. Sleeping with one eye open.

Each woman he had shown interest in mildly had proven to be in it for the money. For the name. It didn't help that even his line of work showed him the cruelties of the world. So why? Why did a girl he met during the lowest most darkest time of his life make him want to live? Why did he envision a future with her.