13. NO MERCY
AAROHI:
I lay there long after everyone left. Long after the doctor packed her bag. Long after his footsteps disappeared down the hallway. My throat felt tight as if someone had wrapped invisible fingers around it and squeezed and squeezed until even breathing hurt.
Two weeks. Two weeks... or silence forever. I pressed my palm to my throat, feeling the swollen skin, the trembling muscles, the hollow ache inside. I tried to speak. Just a whisper. Just a breath shaped like a word.
"M"
Nothing. I tried again. "M-m-" Air pushed out, but the sound snapped in my throat, dying before it even formed. Tears spilled down my cheeks, hot and humiliating.
I tried again. And again. And again. By the tenth attempt, I was choking on my breath. By the twentieth, my chest shook with panic. By the fiftieth, even the air around me felt too heavy.
But his voice echoed louder than everything else: "If you want to meet your mother, speak." "Or get out." My mother. My mumma. Alone somewhere. Maybe scared. Maybe hurt. Maybe worse.
I pressed my hands into the mattress, forcing my trembling body upright. If speaking was the only way if this was the last shot before I lost my voice forever then I had to do it. Even if it tore my throat raw. Even if it hurt. Even if he hated me for it.
I wiped my face, pulled the shawl tight around me, and stood. My legs shook violently, but I didn't stop. I left the room, moving slowly, gripping the wall for support as I walked down the hallway. The staff watched me like I was a ghost drifting past them.
No one stopped me. No one dared. His study room door was half-open. Light spilled out-warm, golden, soft. The opposite of him. I stepped inside.
He sat behind his massive desk, pen moving, papers stacked in front of him. Not even a glance in my direction. He didn't look up. Didn't ask why I was here. Didn't acknowledge me at all.
Just turned a page and continued writing. I stood there, silent, hugging myself, throat burning. Thirty seconds passed. A minute. Five. I opened my mouth. Air. Only air. I tried again, pushing harder. Still nothing. He didn't look up once. Ten minutes. Fifteen.
My knees grew weak, but I couldn't leave. Not yet. Not till I tried. Somewhere around the twentieth minute, he finally spoke without lifting his eyes. "What are you doing here?" His tone was flat. Icy.
A man who didn't expect an answer. A man who didn't believe I was capable of giving one. My fingernails dug into my palms. I had to speak. I had to. My mother's face flashed in my mind.
Her warmth. Her smile. Her voice calling me Aaru.
I swallowed hard. "m..." A croak. Barely sound.
His pen paused over the paper for half a second but he didn't look at me.
I tried again. "M-m..." A broken whisper.
Still no reaction. My throat sparked with pain sharp, fiery, stabbing.
I sucked in a breath, tears streaking down my cheeks.
"m... m-" Air tore out of me, jagged. Twenty-five minutes had passed. Twenty-seven. Thirty. I forced my tongue forward, forced my voice through the swollen, burning barrier inside my throat.
And finally after thirty-five minutes standing in front of him a sound escaped. Small. Shaking. But real. "m-mu " His pen stopped moving.
My chest tightened with hope and terror. I pushed harder. "M... m-mumma..." A cracked, broken, nearly voiceless sound but a sound. A word. Barely held together. Barely alive.
But a word. His head lifted very slowly. His eyes locked onto me. Dark. Cold. Unreadable. For the first time in days... I had spoken.
And for the first time since I entered his house... For a moment a single, fragile moment the room froze. The air. My breath. His expression. Everything went still.
My voice... my tiny, shattered voice... was still trembling in the air between us. "m...m-mumma..." The word slipped out again by accident, weaker this time, more like a whimper than speech. His jaw tightened.
Not shock. Not concern. Annoyance. Cold annoyance. He didn't move for a long few seconds. His gaze drifted down my trembling body my shaking hands, my raw throat, the tears clinging to my lashes.
Then he spoke. "Why are you saying that to me?" I swallowed painfully, trying to speak again. I needed him to understand. I needed him to allow me to meet her.
I needed him to know that I wasn't doing this to defy him. "I... m-mum..." The sound snapped inside my throat, sharp enough to make me gasp. He stood slowly. Not rushing. Not surprised. Not softened.
Simply standing towering over the desk, over me, over my small, shaking form. I felt myself take a step back. His eyes darkened at the movement, like he hated that I feared him... or hated that he caused it.
He walked toward me with slow, heavy steps, each one echoing in my bones. "Say it again," he ordered softly. Too softly. Dangerously softly. I parted my lips, but nothing came out this time.
The swelling. The pain. The pressure. My voice disappeared entirely. My fingers curled around the edge of the door, knuckles white, body trembling. He stood right in front of me now.
Close enough that I could feel the warmth of his breath, the quiet heat of his anger. "Speak," he said again. I opened my mouth... and nothing. A gasp, a dry choke, a whisper of air but nothing.
His jaw flexed. "So that's it?" he asked quietly. "You came here to force out two broken syllables and think I'll do what you want?" My lungs drew a shaking breath.
I whispered again or tried to. "mm...mu-" The pain stabbed my throat so sharply that tears blurred my vision. And for a split second just one his eyes flickered.
Not pity. Not guilt. Something else. Something he crushed instantly. He took another step closer, and I stepped back again until my spine hit the wall.
"Are you trying to manipulate me now?" he asked. My head jerked in a frantic shake. No. No. No. I lifted my trembling hands, gesturing desperately please... I just want to meet her... please...
But the air had left my throat entirely. All I could do was mouth the word: mumma... His eyes dropped to my lips. He saw it. He understood it. But he didn't soften.
Instead, he leaned forward slightly, his presence suffocating. "You think speaking will earn you something?" My breath trembled. "You think saying one word gives you a right to negotiate with me?"
His voice dropped lower, colder. "You don't negotiate. You obey." A trembling exhale escaped me. He stared at me like he was trying to decide if my voice returning was a threat or an inconvenience or something else entirely.
"Meeting your mother," he said, "depends on you. Not your broken voice." My heart thudded painfully. He added, "If you want something from me, you don't come crying or choking or using half a voice."
My knees weakened. He leaned even closer, his breath brushing my cheek. "You come when I call you," he said. "And you speak when I allow it." My eyes stung painfully.
Because I had spoken. I had used every last piece of strength. I had done everything he asked. And it still wasn't enough. He stepped back, watching my shaking body like it meant nothing.
"Go back to your room," he said. A tear slipped down my cheek. He noticed. He saw it. But he looked away, already dismissing me like a closed file.
"And Aarohi..." My breath hitched. His gaze returned to me sharp "Do not try this again without my permission." The last piece of strength in my chest cracked.
I lowered my head, breath trembling, throat burning with pain and failure. Then I turned, slow and weak, and walked out of his study each step heavier than the last. Not because of his words.
Because of the truth they carried. Speaking... had changed nothing. And my mumma... still felt impossibly far away.