Crimson Moonlight

by Serena Mossgraves

I forgot myself, for a while. It is easy to get caught up in a story and lose yourself in a well spun tale. I believed the image of life that I was given. I played the part of the mild mannered cab driver in the busy urban landscape.

While my life was not perfect, and really whose life is, I found myself content.

When they tell my story I believe they will say that I went stark raving mad. And perhaps it should be questioned when the media paints a portrait that differs from the norm.

I find myself wanting to leave my own version so that others like me don’t fall into the same trap. I think it’s only fair. One taste of freedom is almost enough to incite madness. The truth is not freedom, but something far darker.

I remembered who I was nearly a month ago now. He climbed into my cab smelling like a brewery and yelling at someone over the phone. I always hated the fares like this. I always ended up with a migraine afterwards.

It was the night of the blood moon. I almost didn’t work. The craziest people always came out on the full moon, and the weird moons were worse. The crimson moonlight was mesmerizing as I tried to ignore the smell coming from my backseat as he got himself settled.

He had barely slurred an address at me before he climbed into my cab but otherwise his attention was focused on cursing at top volume at whomever was on the other side of the call.

I pulled out into traffic slowly trying to block out the voice inside my head telling me that he was unworthy of life. I don’t know why I pretended I didn’t see the script above everyone’s heads. I suppose I worried I was insane. Was I ignoring the scripts unconsciously, or was it something that I was not supposed to see. These were things that I did not want to question, I guess I assumed everyone had an inner critic and I told myself that the scripts were just my overactive imagination.

I looked at the rear view trying to understand why I was so distracted. This was just another drunk idiot in my cab. Another day that ended in Y. Yet , something about this passenger on this night had me feeling the need to act.

I nearly swerved as I actually saw his scripts. Repressed memories hit like a tank. It was a good thing for the other drivers on that road that my reflexes kicked in at the same time. The clamoring of horns and cussing told me I had at least been noticed. Remembering who I was, and understanding the situation, I decided it would be safer for everyone if I drove us somewhere more discrete.

The scripts were where each person’s sins are collected, something that I had just remembered. It was meant to be a shadow ledger that directed the universe how to deal with your soul after you died. Before the fall, I was one of those sent to collect the worst of the sinners and carry them to their fates. The scripts on most people were inconsequential anyway. Otherwise they would go through a cleansing and be given the option of eternal rest or trying again. I enjoyed my job.

Before I forgot.

His scripts wrapped around him like a mummy’s bandage, doubling back over itself, and was covered in blood. His soul could never be clean again. I knew my duty. Though many of my brethren have as I had forgotten themselves after the fall, we still existed. This man would have reminded any of the immortal ones. He was a danger to mankind. That could not be allowed.

The only problem was that I no longer had the divine power. All of us lost that in the fall. In order to do the duty ahead I would have to be strategic. By this time he noticed we were not going to where he wanted to go. My only chance was to kill him. It would accomplish the same goal though it would be more effort for me. I was convinced that this was the only way. I was blinded by my own emotions. None of us on earth could even hear the divine voice, much less be given assignments. Still, I was certain that this was my job.

His drunken state would aid me. So would my appearance. I looked like a slender young man. “Sorry sir, I am having trouble with the car. I am pulling off so I can call it in. ” I reached over and killed my meter. “Rides free for the inconvenience.” That seemed to placate him for the moment.

I parked the car and pulled out a phone. Getting out casually added to the deception. I popped the hood, and pretended to call someone. I could still hear him berating his call. I looked around for a quick weapon. He got off the phone, and I knew time was growing short.

The rock I found was perfect. Discrete, and heavy. Something no human could easily lift. I prepared myself. The door opened. My aim was flawless. Between the red light of the moon and the immense amount of blood that spread from his skull as he fell I finally saw what the truth would be. I had, in doing my duty, created a script of my own. My sin was presuming I could know the mind of the divine.

Having a script means I am now mortal. If you find this my brethren, please learn from my mistakes. Continue forgetting.