But the story of Justice was not the one I wanted to tell you readers about…

I wanted to tell you about the child from the glass city who rudely brought me back to reality; just when the Lady Justice accepted the rose I offered her.

As I turned to the person who spoke to me in Silver Tongue (how I despise that crude, horrible language!!) I saw her brightly painted lips and thought… How harsh this color looks upon her skin… but they reminded me of the place I longed to return to for the Prophets of the Rose all have darkly painted lips.

I did not want to listen to endless chatter that ALWAYS start with the question, “Did you draw this yourself?”

Why do you insist on asking the most ridiculous questions??!!!

I replied just as politely, “Why yes, I did draw this myself.” She went quiet for a moment and I thought we were done so I plugged in my ear-piece; ready to take off again.

A tap on my should halted my flight into oblivion. “Is someone paying you to do this?”, she asked.

“Why yes…” I replied again, waiting for the next question I knew was coming… “For how much?”…

“I normally ask for the soul but if that is already sold to the Devil as is most often the case, I will settle for the first born child. If that too has been bartered away which is quite common; I will have to ask for all your organs provided they are in good condition so I may trade that away in the black market”….Of course I didn’t say that. I may be wickedly angst-ridden but in rare moments when the prophets have not taken the wheel full-throttle, I am quite capable of some civilized speech.

She wouldn’t have understood so I didn’t tell her the truth; for she is a child of the glass city but I was from the city of rapists.

Over here, everything here is done for money… this is the kingdom of the god named Profit and Whoredom is the preferred profession. Its the ultimate tribute paid to the old goat who just won’t die. Over there, everything is done for instant gratification regardless of consequences.

Would one such as she understand that it is in the escape of what we call reality; when moments of peace descends upon me, the trance cannot be purchased for all the riches milked from the bosom of mother earth. Not for her blood that is black gold to us mortals, or the precious treasures kept hidden inside her womb that we shamelessly plunder with impunity; not for her other children that we hunt and skin beyond what is needed… none of that would suffice to purchase a moment’s entrance into a place that exists yet does not exist.

My eyes glazed over as she continued her mindless chatter as if I gave a damn; the air became polluted her half-wit thoughts on whatever and whatever.

I wish you came with a MUTE button, lady… I have conversations with the dead but the living bore me to the point I would swallow a bullet and deem it a mercy.

How long was the train ride? I was in dire need of morphine so I don’t remember. I only knew I needed a drink… something strong enough to knock me out cold.

The beast was here all along…

Copyright © 2009-2021 Ash Abdullah
Diary of a Broken Soul
& Prophets of the Rose Copyright © 2009 Ash Abdullah
Jahanam Awaits You & Diary of a Broken Soul Card Meanings by Davina Powell
Poetry for The Diary and Diary of a Broken Soul Blog by Ash Abdullah