Wednesday, May 25, 2005

All I could remember, the instant the blue door slammed, was how desperate Muse looked before she entered the Auditor’s room. A sliver of guilt took hold of me, grew large, turned honest, and my own reckoning commenced. Had I taken Muse for granted?

I agonizingly recalled the times we bickered, those shameful interludes where the mundane overpowered the extraordinary. And there was certainly enough of the extraordinary for both of us. It was never supposed to be easy, this thing we had, and my sin was to hold onto something so worthwhile without expending the effort.

Minutes passed. The door remained shut, and the lack of a window only sharpened my helplessness. I strained to hear something, anything. Nothing. I paced, hoping my footsteps would hasten this trip to an end. I went straight for the door, but the Minder hissed. Finally, one interminable hour later, the Minder heard someone at the front door, so she shuffled down the hall. This was my chance.

I seized the doorknob and gave it a rough turn, only to discover it spun freely, defiant in its uselessness. I gave the door a hard push. It wouldn’t budge. Now that I was nearer to the door, however, I could hear a muffled argument. I pressed my ear against the blue.

“I am logical, reasonable, and merciful,” said the Auditor in cold monotone. “I suggest you accept this now.”

“But you cannot claim them for your own!” shouted Muse in a voice I had never heard. “Your duty, your calling is to help the silent, not mute them.”

“You came to judge me, then?” asked the Auditor imperiously.

“Yes. You are not the arbiter of words,” Muse replied firmly, “and if you cannot accept this, I will explain justice to you, down to the last meaning. Every. Single. Definition.”

“I am the Auditor, the Arbiter, and the Adjudicator of words. And I have found you lacking.”

There was an angry roar, struggle, a sharp cry of pain, and then quiet. I had taken her for granted. It was time to act and make good on my remorse.