Crimson Red

Crimson Red
By: Maya Anderson

        The corn blue moon illuminates the black star-gazing night - to insinuate a dark, foreboding fate. In this trivial time of the year- Christmas springs in the London air.Ominous  caricatures allure from the foggy windows of the apocalyptic ruins of my city due to the royal class of men in top hats. They claim that the streets of London are surrounded by insolent brats- poor people. Tis not the time for assimilation habitual cynicism of the ere coming of Father Christmas- tis a time for the corrupt streets of London to be painted Crimson Red.
It all began with a woman in pure white under the volition of the man in the black suit - whom she would fall for. She perverts her eyes in shame of her appearance and banal persona, which he is oblivious to. The way their eyes connected was as if lightning sparked through their souls- rudimentary it may seems. They converse in harmony about their anecdote of the past. The lassie, soon comes to a realization that she found her love - they are both nihilist of one philosophy that distanced them from the “normality”.
        He invites her to his home on the western side of the town where not many stay at. The idea of seeing his home was trivial, but the home was far from mediocre. He lived in a three story mansion that towered amongst the tallest of the trees in the surrounding woodland area. Within the refectory they chatted lightly and spoke upon political points along with those of religion. They sip on white wine that was delivered by a lackey, the man was well put together. She began to feel sick so she takes rest in a guest room in the left corridor. She slept long and heavy for what seemed like a day.        
She woke in a dark room unlike where she originally was. We gets up and slowly walks into what seems to be a light at the end of a tunnel. She walked into a large living room full of people in pajamas, gift boxes, food, and cheer. She did not see the man in the pool of people. That’s when a large ringing of bullets rained down on the people in the room. Her idea of happiness and warmth was disillusioned. As the bodies fell, she realized who the shooter must be. With discernment she was able to put blame on the man who had brought her in his home. Footsteps follow behind her. It was none other than the man himself, with a cocked back pistol tightly gripped in his right hand. The man was tyrannical.
As the anecdote goes, he took advantage of the woman that night and murdered her after he was fully pleasured. He was banal at her of her death by grasping onto her with the pistol to her head.
He killed off over 500 people that Christmas day. The citizens of the city began to rebel against each other and many people became itinerant. My family and I moved to the United States where I earned my baccalaureate in Criminal Sciences. I will find the man who killed so many of the townsmen, their wives and their children. Every Christmas nightmare leads to a motive for change in London.