A Court's Maim

صبح | Morning

Chapter 7.

Morning light kissed the sultry dew that drew itself from the purest of moments. It shadowed over the double edged leaves, spine crackling under their hollow weight. Barreled feet like nothingness danced on the green stems, feeding on the poppy seeds with demure tempers, stuffing the early crying mouths with worms — the flight seeking mother's were already hard at work. The pallor of the divine centre of the universe broke free through the seamless dark, spill of ink. A sprinkling of clouds kept them covered from burning the grass under full force of heat. There was still a mont before summers stroked the nation in it's fingers.

Sparse sunlight washed the creme walls into a bleached white. Thick curtains drawn over the large windows, the room buzzing with the sounds of the ac. Over the cushioned bed frame, wrapped in chocolate sheets and a creme duvet, he slept with his face covered and kissed with frowns. The tips of his eyebrows brushed into one large angled frown. His lips scrunched upwards and the skin wrinkled, the dimples that were hid by his overgrown beard no where to be seen as the apples of Aliyaar's cheeks sunk deeper. Under the sheets he sparred with his pillows, his legs and arms spread out like a starfish's. His alarm buzzed by his ear, and his large palms shoved it further away, under the sleeve of the bed.

Shirtless he felt his skin be kissed with the soft cold. The ripples in his back, ribbed, his shoulder blades cramped as he pulled himself into a smaller ball. His ears pulsed with an ache, the lower ends of his ears rung as blood rushed to his extremities. Aliyaar fisted the sheets, digging his nails into the satin, spreading his legs as far apart as he could — an ache tearing through them. Helpless, he moulded into a sorry figure. His heartbeat raced like a galloping horse. Dreams and visions — hallucinations of her appeared into his line of sight. Blinking his eyes open, he shut the with a grunt. Light bit at them. It was a rookie mistake, crying with lenses still in his eyes. Now, they were swollen, as his fingers felt.

Like a fish out of water he gaped at the air, breathing deep and slow. His warm breath baked the cupids bow of his lips. They were dry and crackled, the water in the jug beside him finished for hours. He had slept feverishly, slipping in and out of consciousness, his thoughts and dreams kept him from losing and gaining. Stuck in between. Aliyaar pressed his palm against his sweaty chest, fire breathed out of each of his pores. He felt like he was sinking. Under water, under it's depths with no oxygen around. His mind was shut down and the sharp, nail like pressure into his ear drums. Aliyaar heard whispers and voices, his vision danced the tango, light split as it does through a labyrinth of roots.

Like a spinning ball his head moved in it's place. Nothing made sense even as he tried with full force. It seemed that his mind worked with it's own plans, with a broken record for a mirage they brought up memories and moments he had of her. Memories were a poison ; they were inflicted on one by their own self. Armistice — it was an impossible wish he fostered in his heart. It would be impossible for him to move on ever, Aliyaar even in his state of a drunken stupor knew. He hoped he never would.
Why ever would a man want to not love a woman like her?

"Aliyaar won't you be going to the office today?" With a knock, his mother's voice rang out from behind the bedroom door.

"She won't leave me alone." He replied with a grunted grin, too out of himself to make sense of what he said.

Aliyaar raised his body that seemed to have gained a hundred pounds over night, the toned abs he worked on still there — he felt by hand. That's weird he thought, how could he have gained weight on an empty stomach. Rubbing his eyes, even as he felt as if there was a fire inside of them, Aliyaar peeped in the direction of his bedroom door. Bright light spilled in and he hissed instantaneously, the back of his arm shielding the sensitive irises. He bit his tongue, watching the blurry silhouette— of his mother, he assumed. The blob of shadows came closer until it was a few steps away and he could make out the hazy features of his mother's face. He slammed his forehead with the centre of his palms, massaging the hardened skin of his forehead.