The sun had come out. Rays of sunlight filtered through the trees and fell on Rishi's face, making him stir. He pulled the pillow over his face. The very next moment, he flung the pillow aside and opened his eyes, looking around. He was in the writer's room, on his bed. He sat up with a jolt. His head was aching, probably the result of staying up too late the previous night. The writer wasn't in the room. Rishi held his head in his hands. How was he going to face the writer now? He had slept on his bed, and the writer had clearly found out.
He looked down at his clothes. His torn T-shirt had been replaced. The writer had dressed him in one of his own T-shirts, which now hung loosely on Rishi's frame.
"Why am I so stupid?" he muttered angrily to himself. He glanced at the clock. It was already ten.
"Oh God, I slept so late," he said, getting up. His face showed embarrassment and anger, anger at the writer's actions, and embarrassment at having slept in his bed. He felt a pain in his shoulder. He gently slid the T-shirt off his shoulder. The wound was deep. As if the writer wasn't human, but a vampire. The bite marks were clearly visible, almost glowing. Rishi touched the spot lightly. A hiss escaped his lips. But along with the pain, his heartbeat had quickened. His breathing grew heavier. He placed a hand on his chest. He was furious at the writer's behavior, yet he didn't feel disgusted. Instead, there was a strange sense of attraction.
He shook his head and stepped out of the room. Slowly, he walked into the hall. The clattering sounds from the kitchen suggested the writer was cooking something. Rishi moved toward the dining table and looked toward the kitchen. The writer was wearing a black shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and his hair was slightly damp, perhaps he had only washed his head.
"Who gets all dressed up and goes to the kitchen this early in the morning like a heroine from an Indian TV serial?" Rishi's mind questioned. He cleared his throat softly, letting the writer know he was there. The writer's hands paused for a moment, but he didn't turn around. Rishi quietly sat at the dining table.
Soon, the writer came over with breakfast. His movements were slower than usual. He arranged the food on the table and began serving Rishi a plate. Throughout the process, he didn't look at Rishi even once. But Rishi was watching him closely. There was swelling on his forehead, a bluish bruise. A cut on his lip with a faint trace of blood. Yet his face remained cold and stern, as if he had swallowed all the ice of the Himalayas.
The writer began eating, but Rishi, who knows what storm was raging inside him. Had the writer not slammed his hand on the table, Rishi wouldn't have snapped out of his thoughts. It was a silent warning from the writer: eat your breakfast. Rishi straightened his head and began to eat. The writer finished his breakfast in less than two minutes and went into the kitchen. As he started washing the dishes, Rishi realized just how serious he was. He didn't want to confront the writer at that moment.
Rishi was still eating when the writer swiftly headed upstairs toward the library. Though his steps carried pain, perhaps due to a wound in his abdomen. Rishi quickly finished his breakfast and followed him to the library. In the silence, the sound of typing echoed. Rishi stood behind the writer. The writer's hands paused, but he didn't turn around.
"Rishi Thakur," his voice was cold. Rishi tried to speak.
"You can leave now. My man will drop you off. You've seen what I am. Now you can show everything to the media. Inform the police if you wish. If they manage to find me, I'll consider it your victory," the writer said. Rishi was stunned.
"And what about those you've kidnapped?"
"No need to worry about them. They deserve what they got."
"I'm not leaving. Not until I take them with me." The writer's grip tightened around the paperweight.
"Don't you understand things the first time?" He spun around in his chair. His jaw was clenched.
"What's the point of me leaving if I can't take the truth with me? And the truth is that many girls are buried here, and many are kidnapped."
"You're not worthy of knowing the truth. I told you, the world knows only as much about me as I allow."
"So what I saw yesterday? was that something you showed me, or something I managed to uncover myself?" Rishi asked fearlessly.
The writer's anger was visible on his face.
"If you want to send me away, then free everyone along with me. Otherwise, consider me kidnapped too," Rishi said and walked out. For the first time in that house, he felt no fear. As if even death came to meet him now, he'd gladly walk away with it. The writer, in a fit of rage, hurled the paperweight.
It was around one in the afternoon. The writer stepped out of the library. Sitting in one place for so long had caused a sharp pain in his stomach. He stood by the railing in the corridor. The house was gleaming. Everything looked unusually clean today, as if the entire place had been bathed in detergent. The writer grew furious. Rishi had cleaned the whole house. He slammed his hand on the railing and stormed into his room.
He pulled out the first aid box, filled a syringe with painkiller, and tried to inject himself. But darkness began to cloud his vision. Sitting and working for so long had taken its toll, his eyes were shutting down. His breathing grew heavy. He tried to locate a vein through his blinking eyes, but even his arm looked blurry. He held his head with one hand.
Suddenly, Rishi grabbed his wrist and took the syringe from his other hand. The writer tried to pull away, but Rishi's grip was firm.
"I feel like filling this syringe with poison and injecting you right now," Rishi muttered, jabbing the needle into the writer's vein as if he were injecting a fat animal. The writer looked at him with heavy eyes.
"I wish I had poison here. I wouldn't hesitate to kill you today," Rishi's jaw was clenched. The writer pulled open a drawer and placed a dagger in front of Rishi.
"If you've got the guts, stab me in the chest right now," he said, handing the dagger to Rishi. His eyes were still hazy, perhaps the medicine and injection were making him drowsy.
"If I fall asleep, kill me then. Because while I'm conscious, you won't be able to do it. You don't have the courage to look me in the eye and kill me," the writer said softly. Rishi's grip on the dagger tightened. Sleep had already begun to take the writer in its arms.
Rishi set the dagger aside and moved closer. He roughly unbuttoned the writer's shirt. Blood was seeping through the bandage. Rishi's face was stern, but his hands moved on their own, he didn't even know what force was guiding him.
He cleaned the writer's wound. A hiss escaped the writer's lips. Rishi glanced at him once and dressed the wound. He tossed the shirt aside and covered him with a blanket.
"I really need a psychiatrist," he muttered and walked out of the room, heading downstairs to the kitchen. He didn't know how to cook, but he had to. He dialed Vedant's number, and Vedant picked up after just one ring.
"Where the hell are you, Rishi? I've been calling since yesterday!"
"Writer pulled a stunt yesterday. I'm still dealing with it."
"Writer did? Or you did?"
"Dude! Are you my friend or his?"
"No! But you're the one who usually pulls crazy stunts."
"Honestly, I should've called Kabir instead. At least he talks sweetly. And I really like his flirty style." Vedant rolled his eyes.
"He's a bit much. Gets hit by a romance attack every minute."
"Oi, what's going on between you two? Something mushy?"
"Shut up. I'd rather do that with you than him," Rishi blurted out.
"Why do I feel Kabir's influence is rubbing off on you too? I'm your best friend, man!"
"That's why I'm saying, best friend is always the best choice. We'd have a stronger bond."
"Vedant!!! Are you feeling okay?" Vedant laughed.
"I'm fine, just messing around, buddy. Who else do I talk to anyway? You tell me, how are things?"
"Man, I don't know how to cook, you know that. Tell me something easy and healthy I can make quickly."
"Ah! The writer deserves a special thank-you. What magic did he do that my friend is actually working now?"
"He got injured yesterday," Rishi said, taking a deep breath.
"Why did you try to kill him so soon? You should've gotten the information first, then taken him out." Rishi sighed again.
"I didn't do anything. He collapsed drunk."
"What the, he drinks too? I thought he was a serious guy."
"Serious? Way too much, Ved." They both laughed, and following Vedant's instructions, Rishi entered the kitchen ready to cause a culinary explosion. Who knows whether the kitchen would go up in flames today or Rishi himself!