The cell was dark and dump. The walls had this chilly grey feel as if the cold mist outside was seeping in wanting to freeze me out.

I wasn’t sure what to do. Do I kneel and pray? Do I confess my sins first and hope that they will be washed away as easily as those songs make it seem?
The cold steely door creaked open and the face-covered, head to toe, all black-dressed gentleman stood there beckoning, ready to usher me out into my fate. I settled on the sign of the cross, gathered my red flowing gown and followed him out into the large unwelcoming court yard.

Red: The colour of vengeance.
My gown being red was not a coincidence, on their part; it seemed as if to mock me, to rub it into my face at the irony of the situation. I have been brought out to the open. Ready to be judged; ready to be condemned, ready to have fingers pointed at me, ready to have stones thrown at me, ready to face the rest of the oh-so-righteous nation.

After all, I am the malicious one aren’t I? I am the one that needs to be the bigger person. I am the one to surely make the first move right? I am the one that is meant to be on the forgiving end, the much shorter stick.
Sure, it is a virtue (or a fruit of the Holy Spirit – I forget my Catholic teachings.)

Is this really fair?

For.give (v): 
To excuse for a fault or an offence.

It sure takes two to tango
It always takes two to each side of the story and even though I may not be clothed in white garments as such, I take responsibility for MY actions.
I grew up.
I paid my dues.
That should be about it.
Pointing your finger doesn’t do you any good, three are always pointing back.

So I stand there facing a sinister crowd in my beautifully, sequined, halter crimson red dress, jeers and chants cursing at me muffled in my head by my own thoughts. This dress must have cost a fortune, looked designer even. A stone whizzes past my ear – I don’t dodge. A stone is nothing compared to what I am here to face.

The men of war cocked their guns. To me they were like actors on a stage, ready to put on a show. My gaze transfixed towards the uncontrollable audience, frozen by the sight. As they release their triggers and the bullets speed towards my direction, I suddenly see the point of the crimson red dress – the attempt to hide my blood stains as a consequent to their raw wounds inflicted upon me, the attempt to hide their deeds, the attempt to hide injustice. Such a waste of a perfect beautiful new dress!

I don’t need anything.

With every impact of each bullet, of each judgment, of each accusation, I feel myself quietly free falling upon a colourful field of flowers somewhere, the kind with the wafty scents, the wind in my hair, brushing against my cheeks and a startling coldness settling in me as I shut my eyes.

Salma Khamala (21)