The Moon Is A Corpse Of A God

It was a clear sky this night, the full moon glowing in its entirety against the infinite darkness. It seemed an age away that the smothering clouds of air pollution had last parted to show its warm light. Staring at the rare sight almost trance-like, the man was trying to decide whether he dreaded the painful view, or whether he longed for its empty comfort. Either way, it didn’t matter.

He stood at a dusty antique cabinet, running his fingers across the cobwebs until he reached a large, shattered ring, filthy with years of untouched grime. This night had brought back long buried memories, but at least holding the halo in his bare hands once again let him escape, if only temporarily, to a happier time. It was a time when there was no suffering, no misery… no death. But now, only the man was immune to death and no one else. There was a time that this had been a gift, now it was only a curse. A curse spent waiting, as was always his job.

Only now he had nothing to wait for.

Shaking himself from his own thoughts, the man carefully placed the ring back in its place, painstakingly using both splayed hands to nudge it perfectly into it’s rightful home. He reached into his pockets and pulled out a cigarette with one hand, a lighter with the other as he turned towards the moonlight. The echoes from his heavy boots pierced through the silence of the dark mansion parlour as he paced towards the ornate wooden window frame. He stared through the cracked glass panes. He didn’t look up at the moon.

Lighting his cigarette, he lowered his eyes to the neon lights of a distant city skyline. Night time used to be a time of contemplation and learning, a chance to expand knowledge infinitely further. Knowledge brought us closer to god, and it was a valuable weapon against god’s enemies. The war was not left solely for god’s shoulders alone. But now. Now night time was a time of self indulgence only.

The man finally took a deep, savoured puff on his cigarette and squinted at the bright lights, distorted through the haze of the smog. How ugly those neon lights were. As if having been avoiding eye contact with an old acquaintance, he slowly glanced upwards at the moon, his beloved master now a dimmed corpse rotting among the stars. But the man’s reunion didn’t last long. A pained scream bellowed from the distant city, cutting through his train of thought like a sharp knife. He closed his eyes briefly, stubbed his cigarette neatly in the ashtray on the windowsill and put his thoughts aside for the next clear night.

Strolling calmly towards the exit, he took his coat from its iron rack, flung it over his shoulder and left, following the screams of his calling. His purpose died with his master long ago, but he knew nothing else. The ghost of his old purpose propelled him still, even thousands of years after it had died. Maybe it was out of habit. Maybe it was out of homage to an old friend.

Original Writing Prompt