What does it mean to take? Not to be handed something, not a gift wrapped in pretty paper…but to snatch something for yourself, to pull it from the universe’s grip? The line between right and wrong isn’t so clear-cut. There’s a vast gray expanse smack in the middle where morality takes a twisted turn. To truly take, I assume, is to dance with the shadows, to have malice coursing through your veins without a single ounce of remorse. I have remorse.
Now, the old car’s engine coughs and spits, a rusty symphony playing beneath a moonless sky. Plastic Jesus figures, not divine saviors but dashboard deities, nod in eerie unison. Their miniature forms cast shadows that slip and slide like whispers in the dark. The radio’s manual click, the lingering scent of cigarettes, mildew making a home in the seats, and a trio of silent messengers on the dash—yeah, the car was a steal, and salvation, it seems, comes from the familiar static that hums through.
In the rearview mirror, the red dirt roads vanish into the distance, swallowed by the night’s hungry maw. I’m running from a past that’s embedded in the very earth, but with every mile, it sheds its weight, replaced by the dread of the coming tomorrow. My clothes, stained with copper and blood, begin to dry. The scent lingers, a haunting reminder of a not-so-distant struggle.
And then, the radio hums again. The static morphs into a whisper, a voice soft but bitter, echoing through the cabin:
“Turn not away from the shadows behind. They walk beside. The road you travel, it knows your name. Blood. Why have you not washed the blood? Wash the blood. Wash the blood. Wash the blood. Why have you not washed in the blood?”
The message dissolves into the static, leaving an unsettling air. The plastic Jesus figures, those silent witnesses, continue their spectral nods. A chill crawls over my skin, bones heavy and cold, fear lingering in the air and seeping into my very core. The radio’s soft hum transforms into a hymnal, a southern revival unfolding within the car’s confined space.
“In the muddy waters, deep and slow, lay down your burdens before the trumpets blow. The river runs silent, but it knows your name, cleanse your soul before the flame…”
I try to steady myself, recognizing the familiar cadence of the southern revival. Jesus nods, a silent witness to the strange occurrences in the night. Yet, beneath my attempts at rationalization, a lingering unease remains—a gnawing feeling that, in this journey of miles and shadows, something darker than the night itself awaits.
The scent of mildew and the faint echo of my own breath created a stifling atmosphere within the car. My hands tightened on the steering wheel, knuckles white against the dim glow of the dashboard lights.
“Blood etched upon the sacred trails. Let the river baptize the stained divine, cleanse your spirit, let redemption shine.”
I flick through the radio stations, desperately seeking refuge from the revival blaring through the speakers. The attempted guilt, woven into every fervent word, feels like a weight on my chest. The blood has dried, clinging slick to my jeans, my shirt, my skin. How is it that dried blood still carries the sickly sweet scent as if it were fresh?
My headlights catch the glint of a reflective road sign. Two miles to the next rest stop. The digital clock on the dash mockingly reads 2:45 am, and there’s a flicker of hope that maybe, just maybe, I can pull over and scrub the blood from my skin in blessed, dark solitude.
The rest stop emerges like a silent sentinel in the desolation of the night. Its neon sign hums an eerie tune as I pull into the vacant parking lot, the only soul seeking refuge in this roadside sanctuary. The gravel crunches beneath the tires, a discordant lullaby echoing my approach.
The flickering overhead lights cast long, distorted shadows as I step out into the chilled air. The night is alive with the hum of insects and the distant whispers of the wind. I walk toward the restroom building, its paint peeling like the skin of some ancient serpent, shedding history.
Inside, the fluorescent lights buzz and flicker, casting a sickly pallor on everything within. The sink, stained with years of misuse, becomes a makeshift altar. I turn the faucet, the water sputtering to life. The reflection in the cracked mirror is a distorted version of myself, a stranger with haunted eyes and a story etched in the lines of weariness.
I strip away the blood-soaked layers, the water swirling crimson down the drain. The soap dispenses with a reluctant wheeze, as if even the inanimate objects harbor a reticence to partake in the cleansing of sins.
The hum of the rest stop seems to intensify, filling the empty spaces with an inexplicable tension. It’s as if the night itself is listening, waiting for the water to wash away not just the blood, but the weight of guilt and the echoes of what transpired on those forsaken red dirt roads.
As I towel off in the dim light of the car, the digital clock on the car dashboard ticks away the seconds. 3:15 am. The radio cracks.
“As the trumpets call from realms unseen, the night reveals what should never have been…”
I bring my hand down hard on the radio’s power knob. Underneath my palm, it caves in, embracing the station and volume, a stubborn fixture refusing to shut off. The hum grows louder, the static more insistent, the airwaves carrying a message only meant for bonafid sinners.
I try to focus on the road, the cracked asphalt beneath the tires, but the hymn infiltrates my thoughts, tendrils of an unseen force seeking entry into my mind.
“Brothers and sisters, we gather to atone. The river, our witness, runs silent, knowing the depths of our sins. You have bathed in the blood, you have washed in the blood. What is next? To see, to see, to see, to see!”
I think of the day’s events, not out of inclination but as if compelled. A miscalculated wager, made with funds already in arrears, and now the debts are calling. It wasn’t a choice, but a twisted kind of survival, a reckoning where the currency demanded wasn’t monetary, but measured in lives. And in the cruel dance of survival, guided by the relentless hand of greed, I found myself at the precipice, unwilling to settle the debt with my own existence. Survival, yes, but survival tainted by stains of avarice.
I find myself drawn to the outskirts of town, where the neon lights of a dilapidated casino pulse like a malevolent heartbeat. The air is thick with the acrid scent of desperation, mingling with the distant hum of slot machines and the muted murmur of lost souls placing their bets. The plastic Jesus figures are eerily still. The radio sputters again.
“…of indulgence, salvation awaits in the forbidden corners where the boundaries between pleasure and damnation…”
I parked the car in the desolate lot, the shadows conspiring with the night to shroud the sins that clung to me. The scent of mildew and the metallic tang of dried blood lingered in the air as I stepped onto the cracked pavement. The casino loomed ahead, a crumbling fortress of shattered dreams.
I wandered through the maze of slot machines, the electronic symphony a discordant backdrop to the echoes of my own footsteps. The air hung heavy with the residue of countless lost bets, a collective sigh of defeated souls. The blackjack table was bathed in an eerie glow, the dealer’s face obscured in the shadows. The cards slid across the worn felt with a sinister smoothness. A game of chance, a dance with fate. The plastic figures seemed to nod knowingly as I took a seat.
The first few hands blurred together—wins and losses, the chips stacking and dwindling. The dealer’s impassive gaze bore into me, an arbiter of my fate. The plastic figures on the dashboard whispered silent encouragements or perhaps warnings, their spectral nods a constant reminder.
As the night wore on, the cards turned against me. Each loss deepened the pit in my stomach, the weight of impending doom growing with every dealt hand. Debts accumulated like shadows in the corners, closing in on me with a suffocating grip.
Outside had deepened black, the stars obscured by a thick canopy of darkness. The car waited in the empty lot. The plastic figures on the dashboard bore witness to my every move, their unblinking eyes following me.
The road stretched ahead, a razor ribbon cutting through the darkness. The radio’s message became a relentless chant, a rhythmic pulse that matched the pounding in my chest. The river awaited, its silent waters a baptism for the stained and the damned.
The miles passed, each one bringing me closer to the inevitable reckoning. The plastic figures, once silent witnesses, now seemed like harbingers of an inescapable fate. The radio’s hymnal persisted, the voices mingling with the night’s whispers.
“Take the plunge, let the river flow. Redemption comes when the debts are your own.”
As the road wound on, I felt the weight of my sins press upon me like an unseen hand. The car became a vessel hurtling toward a damned destination, the shadows dancing in macabre celebration of a fate that could no longer be averted. The radio’s message became a lullaby, a sinister melody that lulled me into a trance.
And in that trance, I saw her—the young waitress, her eyes reflecting the headlights of the car that struck her. A moment frozen in time, a life extinguished in the blink of an eye. The plastic figures on the dashboard were no longer silent; they whispered in eerie harmony with the radio. I move over her body, not stopping this time. The blood appears over me anyways, wet upon my skin and clothes. If I continue, if I stop to help… there is always blood.
“Blood stains the cards, the debts you’ve sown. Salvation waits in the shadows you’ve known.”
The road, once a path to redemption, revealed its true nature. Each mile marker passed was not a step toward freedom but a reminder of the eternal loop that ensnared me. The casino’s neon lights flickered in the distance, a beacon of false hope in a purgatory of my own making.
The car rumbled through the empty streets, the blackjack table awaiting my inevitable return. The plastic figures on the dashboard, now twisted heralds of my perpetual damnation, watched as I stepped into the casino’s dim glow.
The familiar cacophony of slot machines and whispered regrets greeted me. The blackjack table, bathed in an eerie glow, beckoned like a siren calling me to my doom. The cards slid across the worn felt, the dealer’s face obscured by shadows, a faceless arbiter of my never-ending fate.
The cards turned, the game played out as it had countless times before. Wins and losses blurred into a monotonous rhythm, the chips stacking and dwindling like the sands of an eternal hourglass. The plastic figures on the dashboard nodded with each dealt hand, their spectral approval a mockery of my desperate attempts to break free.
And then, as the cards were dealt once more, a revelation unfolded like a cruel punchline to an endless joke. The dealer’s face, once obscured, now revealed my own reflection—an endless loop of self-inflicted torment. The walls of the casino closed in, the neon lights flickering like dying stars. The cards in my hand, stained with the sins of countless iterations, held no escape. The waitress, forever trapped in the headlights of my guilt, became a specter that haunted the corners of my consciousness.
The road, the casino, the blackjack table—they were not pathways to salvation but the endless loop of a soul condemned to relive the same sins. The waitress, the debts, the guilt—they were the chains that bound me to this perpetual torment.
The world collapsed into darkness. The neon lights of the casino faded, the road vanished, and the car became a ghost in the void. The plastic figures on the dashboard, now twisted parodies of redemption, nodded their final farewell.
I was left alone in the silence of the abyss, forever condemned to the echoes of lost bets and the haunting image of the waitress in the headlights. Purgatory, it seemed, was not a place but a state of perpetual reckoning—a cosmic loop from which there was no escape. The radio’s voices lingered in the void, a bitter reminder of a soul forever lost in the shadows of its own making.