Fallen Queen

~ C H A P T E R T W E N T Y - T W O ~

When being 'diabolical' makes more money than being 'veracious', and money is prerogative, society and creation tilt toward destruction. Greed becomes the sword in our guts, and it is, after all, the human mind and wants that twist the same sword in our guts- so, it's always in the human mind. It's always we ourselves who regulate this apprehension of pleonexia and malignancy in our characters. None other can remove what you have inflicted to your soul.

"122, Surrey Street, you say?" I ask her again, to confirm.

It's my fifth day of the week in the hospital- I've snuck out since Melian told me there was someone I'd need to attend to. Dans Lignum was established when I was twenty one and Melian was twenty two; we'd joined hands to raise a charitable organization that cared for abused and impecunious people and children. WIth time, our little place has grown into a large organization, garnering a lot of recognition and a lot more helping hands- so much so that Melian and I rarely need to fill in. The older people help to become family to the abused, penurious children- successfully forming a family filled with love that helps in sustainable development.

"Right. The fourth house from the left. You know, I didn't want to disturb you, but," she sighs, "It's near a cemetery and I-"

"I understand, okay? Get back to work, I'll leave a missed call once I'm done."

Melian has suffered from necrophobia since her 'granna' died. Melian has always been a cold and aloof person, opening up to the rarest of people- she loved her granna a lot. The nice old lady died when she was nine, unfortunately. Melian has always hated the title of the 'nerd', yet she's put up with it just to blend in and go unnoticed- which has always been futile since we've been together and I'm no less than the noisiest, loudest, brashest, rudest, most sarcastic and funny person ever who likes slapping people for a hobby.

Cheese! That's Achelois Crimson for you.

I drive my well-repaired Porsche Panamera that looks as good as new- it's funny when I consider all the things that money can do, until you use it the wrong way. It seems frivolous, then, even though you want to feel like all your wants have been fulfilled. A bright and beautiful day dawns upon the merry streets of California, the air carrying a melodious vibe, making me hum along with it.

As I enter the front of Surrey Street, the air gradually brings along the mellifluous peals of children's laughter, making the perfect ambience of conviviality. The morning slowly unravels into the afternoon as the car moves swiftly in the wide roads.

As I approach the far end of the street, I analyze the huge bungalows, but with the paint peeling on the outer walls, plants beginning to grow through the rocks- obviously and undeniably dilapidated and old as time. They might possibly have been houses belonging to old money that has begun to fade with the flow of time- they clearly show signs of life in there with the bustling noise and slippers strewn in front of the houses, as if the movement was rushed.

I check in at the 122nd House. Clearly, the house looks almost deserted and ready to be left alone. With homely red paint peeling off it's walls- it's neither big as one of those decaying bungalows nor shiny as the other houses on the street. A threadbare, vintage doormat, albeit welcoming and snug lays in the front, unattended and paid no notice towards.

I press the doorbell.

The door opens, revealing a short woman in her late fifties- and probably someone with an Italian origin. Hair of platinum, soles of the classic page, she looked slightly grizzled yet motherly, with that radiant smile on her face. I watch her, face entranced, the morning light reflected off her tanned and wrinkled skin and the eyes that belie her sixty years. She has laughter lines from her gift for smiling easily, her personality is all there to read in those creases. Then her face takes on a look of delight, "A cup of tea m'dear, let's have tea." So we do, made in a china pot, milk in a little jug, proper little cups like in an old movie. Then she shuffles over to the green travelling bag and after some rummaging she brings out two chocolate eclairs."Here," she gives one to me, "Trouble shared is trouble halved- I'm diabetic, I don't think both of them would be any good," she giggles. I widen my eyes, "You shouldn't have the other one either, then," I tell her in a gentle warning voice.