Aamir Hassan slid down the wall he was leaning against, all his strength and courage drained from him. His eyes were haunted and his clothes stained with blood, lots and lots of blood. His wife's blood. His wife who was behind the closed doors in the Emergency Room, a few feet away from where he was sitting on the floor.

He knew, till his dying day he would never be able to forget the visual of watching his wife getting hit by the truck. Of her flying through the air by the impact and the sickening sound of her head hitting the pavement hard as she landed. He had been frozen, rooted to the spot where he stood as he watched her meet with the accident that could possibly kill her.

He had driven her to this. He was responsible for every pain she felt for over two years of their marriage. And now he had given her the final push, albeit indirectly. In his heart he prayed hard for her to pull through this, as she had pulled through every hardship he threw her way. But the rational part of his brain argued that there was no way anyone could possibly survive that. It was impossible.

"Mr Hassan?"

He jumped up at the sound of his name, hoping it would be the doctor coming out to tell him that she made it. To his disappointment, it was a nurse.

"Sir, I'll only take a minute. There is some paperwork we need to go over. You need to sign this form..."

"Just give me the damn paper, I'll sign it." He snapped at her.

"But sir, please allow me to explain to you what this..."

"I don't care."

"But sir..."

"SHUT THE HELL UP AND GIVE ME THE DAMN PAPER! I know its a damn consent form to acknowledge that if my wife dies your damned hospital isn't responsible! I get it!" He snatched the paper out of her hand and scribbled his signature before thrusting the papers back at the nurse and screamed, "just get in there and do your work. Do whatever it takes to make sure my wife is alright!"

He watched the nurse hurry back. He couldn't stand it anymore. He knew it. She was dying. She wouldn't make it. The pain in his chest was getting harder and harder to breathe around. He fell on his knees, tears pouring down his face as his body shook with silent sobs. He had killed her. He had killed the best thing that ever happened to him.

Two hours later, he was sitting against the same wall. His tears had run dry, all hope had deserted him. He was still as clueless about her condition as he was when he brought he in. He knew she was strong. Every single time he screamed at her, and 'punished' her for being weak, he knew in his heart that he was lying. The strength in her quiet spirit manifested itself in small ways, little things that left him completely unsure of himself. At this possible end of their married life he was left with nothing, no happy memories, no laughter and joy of sharing his world with someone special. He was only left with unbearable guilt, and unending sadness.

He watched as his family came rushing into the hospital. They looked around frantically as they spotted him and then came running to him. Immediately his mother crouched down beside him and asked, "Aamir, what happened?"

"Accident." He managed to whisper, unable to recognise his own hoarse voice. "Head injury. L..lots of bl..blood. Don't know.. if sh...she'll make it." He broke down again, unable to contain his grief any longer. His mother wrapped her arms around him whispering words of hope, but his heart had already accepted the punishment being meted out to him. He had hurt the single most beautiful thing in his life repeatedly, and now he was to suffer a lifetime without her.

He dared not look at his father, for he knew that the man who loved his daughter-in-law as if his own flesh and blood would probably kill him. His father had been right all along. Their marriage had been a big mistake, because she deserved so much more better.

Finally a doctor walked out. "Are you family of Mayra Hassan?"

Aamir rubbed at his eyes furiously as he stood up and replied, "y..yes. I'm her husband."

The doctor sighed. "She is still alive, but only by a thread. Two major things happened, one was the amount of blood loss, which was quite a lot and was lost very quickly from her body and second, the head injury. Such head injuries are usually fatal, and patients are brought in dead, but when she came we could still feel her erratic pulse. Her body was in a state of shock due to the blood loss, and even though we managed to get some of the blood back we still weren't able to wake her up. We still can't comment on the amount or extent of the brain damage. We have the MRI reports and we're still in discussion. But in her condition, we will not be able to operate. She would die instantly on the operation table."

Aamir couldn't speak. His voice, all his words betrayed him as he stared at the doctor in shock. He didn't know if he understood everything. But he understood enough to know how grave the situation really was.

His father asked, "But doctor, will she be okay? She will get well, won't she?"

The doctor looked at him sadly and replied, "She is in an extremely critical state. Like I said, she's hanging by a thread. She's barely alive, but honestly," he turned to look Aamir in the eye as he said, "Honestly, Mr Hassan, I don't think she will survive the night."

The doctor walked away as his mother and sister started to sob quietly. His brother laid a supportive hand on his shoulder. His father walked away from him, as if he was a disease he couldn't bear to be in contact with. And he realised, his father was right.

He was a disease. Of mistrust and hatred. Of anger that flew out of control. He was a disease that had destroyed an innocent life. He had transformed Mayra, from being a shy and smiling girl to a terrified woman, with tears flowing from those innocent brown eyes as she stood in front of him night after night, shaking with fear, ready to receive yet another punishment for a crime she would not have committed at all.

Every inch of her skin had faced his wrath, for he had her bruised and hurting all over. When he would fly into his fits of rage, his hands and feet would never stop until he dropped, exhausted from the effort of kicking and slapping her repeatedly. Her cries, screams of agony fuelled him on. He would walk out of their room feeling disgusted by the sight of her blood, she would curl up into a ball and shrink into the corner, crying herself to sleep, as no one would come to her rescue, nobody would answer her pleas to get the monster to stop, nobody would care if she would survive such atrocities. And after the whole episode would be done, he would wiggle out of feeling guilty for what he'd done, blaming her for inciting his anger and telling himself over and over that she deserved it, until he believed it himself.

He closed his eyes. He should have been the one in there, battling for life, not his Mayra. He should have been the one with extensive brain damage. But if it had been him, he knew that she would not be grieving, but praying hard and doing whatever was in her power to get him to survive. She would run from doctor to doctor, asking for reports and second opinions, for someone - anyone - to tell her that her husband was alright. She would be at his bedside all night long, not holding his hands because he told her he felt disgusted at her touch, but keeping a silent vigil.

Oh yes, he remembered. He remembered her anguish at seeing him paralysed. Her hurt at seeing him being rendered useless. He remembered one of those nights all too well -

He watched. He listened. He felt. That was all he could do. His senses functioned but he could not move. Not a single muscle in his body. He watched as his wife busied herself with work. His work.

Tomorrow was Sunday. She would call the barber. She would get his haircut done exactly the way he did it when he was not bed-ridden. Then she would get his slight facial hair trimmed. He didn't have a full beard. And then she would massage his body with that oil his grandmother gave her for his muscles to stay strong. And then she would bathe him, and then feed him, clean after him. And by the end of the day she would be so exhausted, she would fall asleep in her chair while eating her dinner.

There was a knock at the door. She opened it to find his sister, Zara, walk into the room. "Salam Bhai, Salam bhabhi."

"Salam." Mayra would reply. Always with a smile.

Zara sat with him for a half hour, talking to him about school and her studies. All his family had to come speak to him because Mayra insisted they do. She argued, while nobody believed, that he could listen, see and feel. It was her belief that had him hanging on.

His sister sighed at the lack of response from her brother and turned to Mayra and asked her, "Why do you do this Bhabhi? He can't feel us. And yet you ask us to behave as though he can."

Mayra didn't reply. Frustrated Zara left the room. And then Mayra whispered something to herself that Aamir would never forget till his dying day.

"I do it, because I love him."

She loved him. After all that he had done to her, she still loved him. The tears that he had thought he had run out of started to pour afresh from his eyes. He would never get to apologise to her. Never get to tell her that he loved her too, and that he would regret causing her pain for his entire life. That he would do anything to see her smile again, teach her to laugh, rebuild the security and comfort around her that is supposed to be a family. He wouldn't be able to any of that. And all of it was his own fault.

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A/N : Hello people!!

Wow! I can't believe I finally wrote this down. This story has been in my head for so long! Finally, Lolz!

The thing is, Aamir and Mayra's situation is quite common. Domestic abuse happens all around you, if you only look for the signs. And it happens in every circle, every layer. From the rich to the poor. So, it's quite necessary that we are well aware of the reality of it.

This story is more about Aamir's journey than Mayra's and I hope you like it and have a great time reading it!!

So, please do vote and comment. I'd love the encouragement to go on writing this.

Love ya, people!!

CrazyPunter