A Court's Maim

تم کون ہو | Who are you

Chapter 17.

Spite could fund hate crimes beyond perception.

Fact number one — taught and ingrained into the curves of her brain at the hands of her family, and then some more. Indoctrinated almost, she was when it came to trusting, no one was worthy, unless you shared some part of your genetics with them — directly. Even then, some pulled a stick our shorter than hers and were placed against two faced relatives ; friends and much more. There were blessing beyond her perception handed over to her and she knew it was unfortunate that she was not thankful enough. All's well that ends well — it had not ended just yet, not when the smirk on the whore's face was full of pride.

Barekhna loathed this feeling. The guilt and the over bearing pressure of being simply under her kindness — it was poison. The little pocketfuls of justice denied that were served to her on the tray of rock hard ice — shallow in their indisputable weight, it was impossible to even realize that at one point she had shared her bed with the same woman. Whose accusations had trashed her life. Whose simple, morbid jokes — the ones she failed to even laugh at, had ruptured the spleen of her ever growing confidence. Trapped — in a thick overgrown ivy of memories, she was tricked into stepping foot in the place where it had all begun, a hell away from hell, the demons had not satiated even now. Still forcing their ways to wreak destruction, though not as anonymous as they once had been.

Barekhna was prepared albeit, time away had taught her that pleasantries exchanged on the cusp of their lips would be worn as medallions against one another in battle. Her back was straight— like an iron rod had been pushed through it, the swells of her eyes drowned in the carcass of her youthful dreams, in the graveyard of her childish joys. Ripped untimely ; Barekhna was more than a mould of clay. The scars on her mind, the shatters of the untainted memories still lived on and there was only one way to win. So she had learnt — and she was mighty proud of herself. Situations had forced her into the arms of the devil.

Now she was well versed with satan's language. A maestro of the jargon. The pagans of his filthy faith could no longer harm her. 

"This life and every else I'm going to haunt you."

Spacing out her words evenly in the dense banter of the bride and groom who looked pleased at the actions — which would lead to their own doom, Barekhna stubbed her nails into the bride's arms, leaving a lasting impression.

"Is that a threat?" Erina chuckled, all the airs of a proper heir wrapped in thick folds around her head.

"It's a vow," she added leaning in, "and you know I never break those."

"You and your high morals — all for them to lead you into the arms of the highest bidder," Erina tutted, her eyes raking over Aliyaar's shoulders, "pity."

"That's an appropriate word," Aliyaar smiled, "it's indeed pitiful that your love's price was slandering an innocent man."

An icicle landed itself between their feet, a barrier formed in a second and deprived both parties of air. There it was — a sharp retort, but more than that, it was the way the words caressed the jugular and stripped it of any right to provide with oxygen. A man with his arm around his fragile looking wife — whose eyes were rimmed red, wronged on her big day, she painted the image of a demure dove, begging for mercy. Versus, a man with his arms tucked into his pockets, a fierce woman to his side with her arms around his waist — a total opposite and despite the lack of love, they seemed more fluid. Spun in a web of the bride's own bitter fantasies, the three were forced to live out a version of the history only scribes paid by her had written.