Lut Gaye || لٹ گۓ

FOURTEEN | I'd Die For You

"sochna kya haath ye de de mere haath main"

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The night before new year's eve

SLUMPED against the cold scrappy wall of the cell he had been confined in with his chest heaving up and down rapidly, his inky eyes cruised over the half unconscious, and half groaning in pain, bodies of the men lying on the concrete floor along with the wreckage of furniture and shards of glass.

The men, Zain had unleashed a savage beatdown on, just moments ago.

Nudging himself off the wall with a pained hiss, he slowly began sauntering towards the exit, passing by the beaten-to-pulp figures of Haider's goons.

He pressed his hand to his excruciatingly stinging temple―feeling a warm liquid brushing his palm―and when he brought his hand before his eyes, it was saturated in crimson. In his blood.

Curling his fingers into a fist, he lowered his arm and kept dragging himself forward until his steps halted by a broken wooden table he had whacked one of the men into. Hunching down slightly, he picked up his cellphone from the floor that they had snatched from him when they had brought him here.

Straightening himself, he turned it on and thanked his lucky stars that it wasn't dead. Clutching it in his hand, he veered around with a starch look in his eyes and said hoarsely;

"I'm taking back my phone, you fuckers."

Whirling back, he proceeded to lumber forward and climbed up the stairs leading the way out of that dark, stinking place.

Every bone in his body ached. There was a nasty gash on his right forearm and his forehead was already bleeding―the sides of his face burning like fire―he was certain his face must've been looking like a red and blue canvas of bruises. His spine throbbed with each movement he made as he got out of the underground cellar and emerged in the lounge of the house.

After apprehending him at the beach on Haider's command, the men had brought him to this rotten old house and throwing him in the underground room with his hands and legs tied, they had given him a bad beating before taking a rather long break.

The time they had left him alone was the time he had spent on liberating his hands and legs and when they had come back, the so-called hell Haider had prepared for him, he had dropped back on his lackeys.

The sparring―and the beating he had received before―had left him badly injured and exhausted though.

Escaping from the main door, he walked out in the open area and a frosty gale of wind welcomed him with open arms, enveloping his battered and cold body, making him shiver and wrap his arm around himself.

His heavy eyes scrutinized the surrounding. There was only a small cottage on the other side of the mist-laden, desolate road, staring back at him with no vehicle or human in sight.

The sky over his head was bathed in twilight hues of dawn, indicating the ascent of sun was brewing.

Limping forward―as far as he could―he stopped by an aged, gnarled tree, leaning his sore back against its bark as his breath furled out in puffs.