Married My Enemy (#1 Rajput)

32- Mental Asylum

"Bhabhi," She hears someone's concerned voice. It tickles down her back like cold air or water. (Sister-in-law)

It's all fake. It's the clown. It's the clown. The red lipped clown smiling at me. On me.

She takes a large step back. Her hand still on her face. Covering—shielding her from meeting the dangerous clowns face. Jaanvi can face anything but a clown. The phobia sits deep down.

It can't be real, can it? After ten years there's no way she'll lock me inside the same room with the clown. No, i—it just can't happen.

She feels someone's rough hand on her elbows. Steadying her trembling body and pulling her towards themselves. The touch—it awoke some horrifying memory. Jaanvi felt as if the clown has gotten a grip on her, found her, to hurt her. One touch and it was enough for her to fear and shrink.

She pushes the hand away from her right hand, her left hand still covering her face. She shoved the rough and firm hand back. Jaanvi wanted to run and she was trying to do the same.

"Bhai," She hears someone's voice again. (Brother.)

She's an intense person. Every emotion she feels is intense. Her highs are high, and lows are extremely low. Her fear of clowns has clouded her sense so firmly that she can't seem to recognise the familiar voice.

She tries her best to think. To understand what's going on and who this voice belongs to. Her courage doesn't set her free though.

She learnt one thing at a young age.

No one can fuck with clowns.

No matter how calm you are or least try to be, according to Jaanvi, the creepy smile was all it takes to shake you with fear running down your veins.

After a minutes which felt like an hour for her, she feels a hand on her wrist trying to pull it away from her scared and covered face. She struggles to loosen the grip and keep her hand still on her petrified face.

"L-l-leave me!" She yells in hopes to sound brave. Unfortunately, her shaky voice said otherwise. All her hopes going down the drain.

"Calm down." Comes the smooth voice. The tone was a mixture of calculated—worried how she'll react if the owner of the voice wasn't careful enough—and panic, but in controlled at the same time.

Still having grip on her small wrists, the rough hands—belonged to a man—begin—try—to pull away from her face, hoping to see her face, make her open her eyes and see everything's fine. Jaanvi shook her head violently, arguing silently with the man through her actions. Small steps taken backwards.

"N-n—no!" She bawls. Eyes remain shut, if possible, she squeezed them tighter, causing immense pain. The sharpness of her actions caused her pain—not just in this particular situation but life too—it feels as if her lashes were curled inside her eyeballs, cutting her orbs ever so slightly, she winces out in pain.

And anguish sob escapes her trembling lips. The pain feels unbearable, with the physical and mental and emotional trauma she's been trying to run away from. The suffocation replicated a movie scene—or a dream—she remembers, as if her body was getting squished between two brick walls. The walls were her hands.

If her eyes constant sting wasn't bearable, then God offered to compensate that by an unexpected stab on her foot. Jaanvi, unable to hold her agony in screams.

Someone's foot was on hers, pressing the heel of their shoe on hers—not too hard, but enough to draw in urgent attention.

She pushes her hand away from her furiously red face. Immediately shoving the person away from her body, brutal sobs slipping from the corner of her mouth. Her eyes burned as she opened them and focused on her feet.