The Silence Of Moths

It’s dark.  Quiet now.

I can hardly stand the silence.  It only amplifies the sound of my thoughts.  They’re like a million moths relentlessly throwing themselves at the porch light we used to sit under on warm summer nights.  They used to seem so errantly peaceful in their pursuit for warmth.  I’m beginning to understand their desire.  Unfortunately, that light is out now.

The ground is cold.  Unforgiving.

Somewhere I know I’m beginning to ache from sitting in the same spot for so long.  My arms burn as they hold my knees tight to my chest.  I would release them but for the bars around me.  Intangible barriers of cold flesh I can only thank myself for erecting.

My foot slips and brushes against her cold skin. The sensation sends a jolt up my leg and I yank it back in, pushing myself against the wall as best I can. Even in death she wouldn’t let me go.

The impregnable silence of the moths is broken by the low rumble deep in my gut.  Hunger is no longer my body’s way of reminding me to nourish itself.  It now serves as a measurement of time.  The last whimper was longer than the one before.  The pain even sharper.  They say a man can survive for weeks without eating.  Jesus, how long have I been here?

Time is the only thing I have left. The time between this moment and someone finally coming to find out where we have been or what that smell is.

The time I’ll spend locked away for what I’ve done. Oh God, what have I done?

I probe the floor for the knife I know is there. It had skittered across the hardwood a ways when I’d dropped it. My fingers find a cold sticky puddle first. Pushing through the lump quickly swelling in my throat I reached further and there it was – the implement of both our destinies.

Your’s; face down in a puddle of your own lifeblood. Mine; Eternal damnation.

I grasped the handle and the blade scratched across the floor as I brought it to my chest. Clutching it there as if a crucifix, I rose to my knees to say a prayer to anyone still listening.

Before I’d finished or knew what I was doing, I felt the blade slide easily into the soft flesh of my neck. I could immediately feel my heartbeat quicken as it began pumping my blood through the gaping wound in my throat. As that same beat began to slow, I crawled forward towards my captor. One final act of defiance.

Even though I couldn’t see it, I pictured my lifeblood falling onto her. She would have never stood for such a mess had she been alive.

I couldn’t hold myself upright any longer. The pain was leaving my body and I fell to the floor atop her.

I smiled as my final thought coalesced, at least I ended up on top.

[Art inspired by Story]

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This entry was posted in Dark, Escape, Murder, Reflection, Relationships and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

6 Responses to The Silence Of Moths

  1. moofiefate says:

    Visceral drawing!
    And interesting story to go with it… do you write longer pieces too?
    (Poe believed the perfect story is one that can be read in one sitting… are you in that
    camp?)

    • I have written longer pieces but I like Poe’s stance. I’ll take it one further and say the perfect story is one that can be written in one sitting! I haven’t found the drive to write anything longer recently, but the creative juices are starting to flow…. well maybe just drip a little faster.

  2. Rory, I find this story very interesting. The dark side can tell us a lot about ourselves.

    Since you let me know that you appreciate feedback, I wanted to give you a heads up on this: “Pushing through the lump quickly swelling in my throat I reached further and there it was – the implement of both our destinies.” Here you switched tenses. Your story begins in the present tense and here changes and continues in the past tense, a change which can be confusing to the reader. You changed rightly, just before this, when your protaganist was remembering past events (“It had skittered across the hardwood a ways when I’d dropped it.”) but after the memory, the tense you began with, should come back for consistency. (I’m no English teacher; I sometimes rely on English websites from universities to make sure I do these kinds of language things as well as I can.)

    When I do my second editing sweep of a story, these basic English things are the ones I look for specifically. Every writer has things like this that get by us when we are first crafting our stories. That’s why we have to edit as carefully as we can, after we get them down.

    One last thing: If you ever experiment with these things consciously, like a painter doing an abstract, then of course, as the artist you can and should do whatever you want. Like Jack Kerouac.

    I’ll be back tomorrow to see what you’ve got in store for us!

    • This is perfect feedback, SIS. I’m no more formally trained than yourself, which meant/means I struggle with some of the basics on a regular basis. When I first got back into writing the tenses were all over the place – I may even have invented a couple of new ones. After a re-read it was obvious I’d gone a little insane over the years.

      This kind of feedback is exactly what I need to keep pushing me to refine my craft and I truly appreciate the time you took to help. I hope I can repay the favor, though I don’t expect I’ll see, or catch, many mistakes on your end. Your writing is exceptionally clean from what I can see.

      We’ve got some interesting stuff ahead and I’d be happy to have your thoughts on it anytime you are willing to share them.

      Anways, thanks again.

  3. Jessika Dené Tarr says:

    wonderfully dark!

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