The Artist And The Atheist

| PROLOGUE |

بسْمِ ٱللَّٰهِ ٱلرَّحْمَٰنِ ٱلرَّحِيمِ
In The Name Of Allah, The Most Beneficent, The Most Merciful

⊱ ⋆ ⊰

Oh, so I'm in a courtroom.

My sight swiftly runs around the court in mere curiosity, finding it out to be thronged with people wearing formal suits. As I feel a warm touch on the top of my hand, I turn to my left, noticing my mother sitting next to me. A tinge of anxiety marring her skin. When I am about to ask the cause of her fretfulness, she ushers me to look forward but not let a single syllable utter from her lips. Throwing a last weariful glance in her direction, I look ahead and find a girl standing on a witness stand with numerous people surrounding her.

Strange. I tilt my head in contemplation. I never knew these many people were allowed to surround a person on a witness stand, maybe because they aren't.

I can not make out her facial features because of the crowd, but from where I am sitting, I can tell she is wearing a white dress, and her head is covered by a-- veil of some sort. I guess.

An unfamiliar feeling erupts in my bosom, and suddenly I feel my heart inclining to her.

But why?

Getting up from the chair, my feet begin to move out by themselves, leaving my mother behind in bewilderment because of my sudden movements. My vision turns hazy with people changing places as if they are ghosts, not humans. I thought it would be hard to approach that mysterious girl, but to my astonishment, as I got closer and closer, people started to make way for me. Their eyes glimmer at the sight of me.

My steps slow down, and my widen-orbs scrutinize them, trying to comprehend this unusuality.

Who am I? Why are they treating me with such high regard, as if I am someone famous, someone, who has a crown of achievement over his head, someone, with high honor?

A ruckus near the witness stand breaks my line of musing. I hurriedly look ahead back again. Catching my pace, I take long steps toward it.

My gaze then collides with her figure. Her back is slightly leaned from pressure because question after question is fired up at her by many people.

Though judging by her posture, she looks as if she is overwhelmed, but God— the way she talks, the way she portrays her views, and the way the words come out of her mouth; it is vivid yet piercing, compelling me to herself like a strong, invisible magnetic force that I have no control over.

Wait, God? I do not believe in God. I never did.

My lens moves down, and a feeling of pity for her rises. Her hands —- her fingers specifically are bound by wires of different mikes. But they aren't regular mikes— singers use them. Each one of them is fancier than the other. But why does she have such posh mikes? And why are the people pulling those wires while interrogating her?

And then fury, madness, and protectiveness surge up into my veins.

With a clenched jaw and steely force, I push a man back and then another until I reach the stand with her back facing me. What is odd is that she still keeps answering, and it agitated me to a great extent.

Pulling her to me forcefully from the back, I anticipated releasing her, but to my dismay, she couldn't budge as she was tangled. The only way to get her out of here is to get rid of these wires. And so, I start to break some of them with my bare hands.