‘Forgive me for I have sinned. It’s been more than a week since my last script. I find myself revisiting old ways and defying new means that I know I should adopt. ‘But why’ I hear the angels ask. Because the honey is sweet enough to detract from the pain of the sting.
On the seventh day, when work had been completed I sat in the garden and watched her pick fruit. She was delicate, serene, perfect and I knew she was mine. For when I had slept she had been formed for me. She was bone of my bone, flesh of my flesh and she had now been returned to me. I stared transfixed unable to shift my gaze, as if counting the hairs on her head. She seemed perfectly ignorant of my attention, probably as this was a normal occurrence to her. Beauty such as hers spoke volumes and was true genius. Better even, as it needed no explanation. My inner demon rose and hungered for her.
For everything there is a season, a time for every activity on this untamed raucous planet. This was not my choice but what had been pre-ordained, I was simply the messenger. Messengers from age old times would either receive an undeserved amount of gratitude or an equally uncalled for amount of blame. This was the condition of being the messenger.
Time stood still while she plucked strawberries as red as blood from the branches. Eventually her basket had filled with lustrous fruit, and she made her way out of the garden but not before giving me a glance with those devilish dark eyes. I stood and with little cerebral control discretely followed her out of the garden, followed her to the supermarket and was finally led by the mesmerizing sway of her short yellow dress to her apartment. She had remained ignorant of my presence, which somehow excited me. As the front door closed behind her I noticed the sun had long since set, although it had not impacted my world that had been lit by a bright light from a spectacular creature. A creature who I would visit again. Visit again, very soon.
Judas, April 10th’
‘Hey sweety, what are you reading so intently?’ asked Remy, startling him as he became aware of her presence.
‘When did you get back?’ Tom asked turning his attention to the stunning auburn haired lawyer, ‘you know this is my favourite skirt,’ he said sliding his hand down from the small of her back to rest on her pert bum that was elegantly filled her fitted pencil skirt.
‘Maybe, but you’re going to have to wait,’ she teased, momentarily remaining in his embrace.
Remedy Austin at birth, or Remy Austin today, was well known for her lust for success. A typical work hard, but play harder girl she had not lost a case to date, and had no intention of changing the habit of her working career. This case had challenged her. The mounting evidence against her client left little to the imagination, completely confirming his guilt and Remy was struggling to fashion him a get out of jail free card. The client in question, Paul Thorpe, was standing trial for slaughtering a father of two, who worked at the local care home where Paul had resided for most of his teenage life. The murdering son-of-a-bitch deserved to rot in hell and surprisingly this was a fact that Remy agreed with. Having strongly believed hell wasn’t hers to create, the remnants of the idealistic girl within her hoped freedom would bring him some sort of hell. The thought was quickly quashed by her inner cynic that had seen Paul display subtle psychopathic tendencies through various interviews over the preceding days. Growing up watching her mother beaten to the ground by her biological father, her intention had always been to defend the innocent and put the people she now called clients behind bars. An honourable task indeed, it wouldn’t have brought her fame or fortune, and perhaps she was no guiltier than any of us for changing our morals when the tide turns to our favour.
‘Interesting blog. Why call himself Judas?’ Remy asked turning her attention Tom’s laptop and the blog that had held his attention captive for several minutes.
‘I would have thought the inner workings of psychotics would be more your field of expertise,’ Tom answered uneasily.