Vanity. Ares

positioned in my seat by Coctau whose nails were
fondly gripping me, I remember the pain feeling
rather casual by that time. I then looked at the jury
again and noticed a lady wearing a blue blazer and
a white shirt. As my eyes glanced at the lady I
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
A
wondered why I had in fact noticed her in the first
instance, but I did nonetheless. I then thought I
should look at the other juror’s and the rest
seemed a blur, apart from a man wearing a turban.
Looking at the turban I questioned whether such a
man would be prejudiced by his attire. I thought
he would be as the turban was clearly a declaration
that unless he was a lapsed Sikh, in his eyes I was
guilty regardless, as I further mused that the case
would be full of accusations of debauchery, sexual
exploits and deep analysis of gritty details, that I
even wanted to forget. A guessed that a religious
man would surely not understand the grey that I
deemed as truth; I was not sure at that moment.
Perdition came back to mind along with memories
of Myra’s strong chin; a missed sign, I gathered.
I did want to bring my truth to light, but
peering back at that turban I came to realise that
the nausea within me had overcome me, more so
by that time and fighting did seem a big to do. I
positioned myself in my seat unsure of what type
of facial expression to take; it was like walking onto
a stage, but having to act as if every eye was not on
me — it felt somewhat like an act or play; A
masquerade to an affect: I was the accused and I
had to play the remorsefully accused perhaps? I
was not sure, and I wondered what type of
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