A Court's Maim

تاراہ | Star

Chapter 14.

An ominous sign would perhaps have been his car colliding the curb before their home, or the strings of his piano breaking. He would have found some truth even in the destruction of his favorite glass vase or his beloved Lightning falling ill. Aliyaar was prepared for a n number of reasons to portray the negative and the err in his life. Though, when it hit him — he wretched, wheezing as he took control of his senses. No. It was a startling realization and discovery that something so effortlessly simple and joyous could have signified direful circumstances. Because it was a funny occasion, bittersweet it's flavor.

For he could have never imagined that his wife preparing dinner was the sign for an ill about to fall on to him.

It started as the evening hues of orange mixed with the night's blacks. It bleakly bled into lines, shaded with the belief of the innocent. Dark took over with the power it seldom used and in the blink of an eye the skies were covered whole. Rusts blemished in spots that were in perfect circles, stars loomed and skimmed the grazing edges of the veil the world wore on herself. She was in mourning — a funeral the living and the dead were forced to attend. Perpendicular to the dark skies, with listless emptiness, was the land. Lights tweaked the environment and the yellows were pale in contrast against the charcoal. Reds — reeking of purity and sultriness danced on top of the buildings, a tango, intimate. As it forced the eyes of all to watch, as it slowly made love to the shadows.

Soft rain had followed the winds that moved through the Siberian mountain peaks into the Karakoram. Eventually they landed here, in the heart of Lahore, they chilled the exteriors and warmed the interiors. Trees struck against the fiberglass windows of the estate, thin leaves plastered themselves against the sloppy outsides and in between the distances were silhouettes. Flashes of light morphed the features of air into thickets of ghosts and tales that would eventually die on the dried lips. Cars splashed the puddles of water before they reigned into the parking, heavy doors crushed against the grips and damp figures entered into the foyer.

Aliyaar's bony fingers had lapped over the crisp shuttle of his cuffs, patting the creases out, he felt the starch bite at the pads of his thumbs before softening. It took getting used to, the collar rubbed against his throat, the ebony left behind streaks on his skin — pure dyes like blood left their marks everywhere. Parcelling his work he placed the files and the worn out leather work bag ; a reminder of his great grandfather, on top of the circular desk. Flowers erupted from the magnificent vase and reached out to touch the sky. There was might and there was passion in the roses, the sweet scent wafter into his nostrils and Aliyaar relished in their feel.

Marching across the endless hallways lined with gold and shades of wood he traced the trims on the mid length. The mirror placed above the coveted sculptures reflected him. Worn out, his eyes lost power and the blurry mess of his jaw seemed more distorted than ever. Curling over his forehead the gelled hair had lost it's touch, the top of his shoulders meshed with the shirts stitching. He slammed his hands over the arms, reassuring that he was still in shape. That skipping the gym for days had yet to have an absurd reaction on him.

Gossamer's had been removed and replacing them were gold ones. The thin meshes covered the doors and crept around the door's hinges as he stepped into the dinning room. It smelt of too much at the same time. He smelt the spices and a steady flow of cardamom and bay leaf fled into the warm air. Even in the early days of October the built in fire places burned, the woods crackled and matched up to par with the soft conversation that rose from the dining table. His parents and his wife — a sight. The top half of his torso reflected into the whining glass and the candelabra's casted a light shaving of shade on to his high set forehead.