The Crimson Hat

As I looked in the mirror I didn't see myself. I saw a person buried in identities. "You're an angel." "You're a monster." "People trust you." "Such a manipulative person." People today look at pictures, awards, report cards, family members, and much more when they want to define themselves. Me? I have the ashes of past assignments in fireplaces. A trail of blood left behind by me. The people who see me as the greatest assassin, and the people who don't realize that in another identity, I am what they hate. All I remember are kind eyes that are filled with sadness. Until then I did not remember anything. Could they be the eyes of the one person who could actually make me feel something?