The sterile white walls of the hospital room offered no comfort. The fluorescent lights buzzed faintly above, casting a harsh glare over Faizal’s bandaged body. His wounds still burned, the stabbing pain echoing through every fiber of his being. He lay there in silence, staring at the ceiling, waiting for Roselle to return. She had stayed as long as she could, but eventually, she had to leave for some rest. Now, he was alone.
A nurse entered, her gaze cold and indifferent. She adjusted the IV line with more force than necessary, making him wince. "You should count yourself lucky," she muttered under her breath. "People like you don’t always get a second chance."
Faizal’s throat was dry. He wanted to ask for water, but the words caught in his throat. He wasn’t sure if she would even listen. Another nurse came in, younger, but just as distant. She placed his meal tray on the table beside him without a word, not bothering to help him sit up. His arms trembled as he tried to reach for the glass of water, his fingers barely grazing it before it tipped over, spilling across the sheets.
The younger nurse sighed heavily. "What are you doing?" she muttered, grabbing a towel to clean the mess. "You can’t even do that much?"
He clenched his jaw, swallowing back his frustration. He had been on the other side of this once—harsh, impatient, full of anger. Now, he was at the mercy of others, just as helpless as those he had hurt.
Hours passed, and he drifted in and out of restless sleep. The painkillers dulled the agony but not the memories. His wife’s face haunted him, the night he had lost control replaying in his mind over and over. The irony of his suffering was not lost on him. He had once destroyed a life in his drunken rage, and now, a drunken man had nearly ended his.
When Roselle finally returned, her presence was like a breath of fresh air. She immediately noticed the untouched food, the dried water stain on his blanket. "Did no one help you?" she asked, her voice laced with concern.
Faizal hesitated before shaking his head. He didn’t want her to know. Didn’t want her pity. He had no right to it.
Roselle frowned, anger flashing in her eyes. She turned toward the hallway, determined to say something to the staff. But Faizal reached out, weakly grasping her wrist. "Let it be," he murmured. "It’s nothing I don’t deserve."
She looked at him for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then, without a word, she pulled a chair closer and sat beside him. Whatever resentment still lingered between them, she stayed.
And for now, that was enough.
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Faizal lay on the hospital bed, his body aching from the deep stab wound. His head throbbed, and his vision blurred under the harsh fluorescent lights. The sterile scent of antiseptics clung to the air, mixing with the lingering sting of pain in his body. He tried to move his fingers, but even the smallest motion sent sharp agony through his limbs. The painkillers were barely doing their job, and the bandages wrapped tightly around his abdomen felt suffocating.
Roselle had been with him earlier, staying by his side, but she had left to get some fresh air, saying she needed a moment to clear her mind. The weight of seeing her father in such a vulnerable state had unsettled her, and she needed space to process it all. He had watched her leave, a part of him wanting to call her back, but he knew better. He had no right to demand her presence.
Now, alone in the room, Faizal struggled to sit up when the door swung open. A nurse entered, her expression unreadable as she carried a tray of medication. She placed it on the small table beside him, her gaze avoiding his own.
"Sir, it's time for your medicine," she said curtly.
He reached for the cup of water, but the nurse merely stood there, making no move to help him. His hand trembled as he tried to grasp it, the pain making it nearly impossible. He looked up at her, expecting assistance, but she merely crossed her arms.
"Could you please help me..?" he asked, his voice hoarse.
She scoffed. "Help you? Like how you helped your wife that night?"
His breath caught in his throat. A cold shiver ran down his spine as he processed her words. She knew. Somehow, she knew.
"People talk, Mr. Faizal," she continued, her voice laced with disdain. "You think doctors and nurses don't gossip? We know exactly what you did. You killed your wife in a drunken rage. And now, what? You want our sympathy?" She let out a bitter laugh. "You should be rotting in prison, not lying here demanding help."
Faizal felt a lump form in his throat. The shame of his past wrapped around him like chains, heavy and unrelenting. "I regretted it, I.. really do. That night was the first and last time I had ever touched alcohol." he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.
"Regret doesn't bring the dead back," the nurse snapped. "And it sure as hell doesn’t erase the suffering you caused. It's honestly weird how your daughter would even take you to the hospital instead of just.. letting you die."
Without another word, she turned on her heel and left the room, slamming the door behind her. Faizal sat there, his chest rising and falling in shallow breaths. He clenched his fists, anger and self-loathing warring within him. He deserved this. He deserved every ounce of hate thrown his way.
Minutes later, another nurse entered. She, too, had a cold expression, but she remained professional as she checked his vitals. When she adjusted the IV line, she did it with little care, causing him to wince.
"Careful," he muttered, his voice strained.
She didn't even acknowledge his words. "You were lucky," she said flatly. "That stab wound could’ve been fatal. Pity it wasn’t."
His stomach twisted. He had spent years trying to atone for what he had done, but now, faced with such raw contempt, he realized just how deep the wounds of his past ran—not only for himself but for those who had heard his story. To them, he was a monster. And maybe they weren’t wrong.
Time dragged on. Each hour felt like an eternity. The staff continued treating him with indifference, some even with outright hostility. His food was often left cold by the time it reached him, his pain medication delayed without explanation. No one spoke kindly to him. He had never felt so alone.
Roselle returned in the late afternoon, her eyes tired but her presence a relief. The moment she stepped into the room, Imran saw the way the nurses' attitudes shifted. They became gentler, their cruelty hidden behind professional masks.
She sat beside him, unaware of what had happened in her absence. "How are you feeling?" she asked softly.
He wanted to tell her everything. He wanted to tell her that, for the first time, he truly felt what it was like to be helpless, abandoned, and despised. But he couldn’t. He wouldn’t burden her with that.
"I'm fine," he lied.
She gave a small nod, though doubt flickered in her eyes. "The doctor said you'll be discharged in a few days. You'll have to rest, though."
He forced a weak smile. "I'll manage."
As Roselle busied herself with arranging his things, Faizal looked down at his trembling hands. He had always believed that his suffering was his own, that no one could truly understand the torment he carried. But now, he knew.
Karma had finally caught up to him.
And it was merciless.