Moonflesh

The fruit falls at night. It's as if a persistent thud were beating against the windows and pounding at the ground. There is a heartbeat that lingers outside–Mother thinks I’m crazy, but I swear it's the moon. It calls me outside sometimes to watch the carnage raining in the yard. I always listen; the way the tides and ocean are ruled by the moon.

I step quietly. The house is asleep yet alive, the soft rise and fall of a chest punctuated by the sound of falling fruit. I think it sounds like rainfall, absent-minded tapping on the glass. It is too loud inside. The noise echoes and the whispers drift through the hallways, unclaimed but not unheard. Outside, the noise blends into quiet, steady threads strewn into thin curtains. Everything is washed in a blue hue, the kind that bleeds into the walls and stains them dark.

The door shuts with a creak as I watch the sky from the safety of my porch. Flashes of silver silently streak through the air before connecting with the earth. What a devastating way to end. They finally rest, embedded in the shallow sandy soil.

I have watched them for a year now. They never grow. I have buried them deep underground and attempted to witness them take root and sprout. As I dug, the ground seemed to cry out. With my lips peeled back to reveal pale white teeth, I rip into the soil with a monstrous ferocity.

The fruit was tender to the touch, maybe even ripe. It refused to open, dimpling invitingly as I prodded and sliced with my knife, to no avail. The skin was impermeable, flickering faintly with my hurried attempts. The fruit is gone by morning, leaving no remains, no signs of rot. Vanished, as if it was never real and I was but a liar.

Maybe the flesh wasn’t meant to be broken, and the fruit was always going to disappear. Some stories are meant to go untold, just as certain tragedies will never be named. Maybe knowing what lies inside us only leads to more questions, with no answers. Curiosity invokes desire, and desire paves a dangerous road to obsession. And so, my obsession is told through these glowing spheres from the moon.

I stand firm at the edge of the porch, a silent observer. The glint of metal in the sand calls to me in a silvery sing-song. I can’t stop myself from singing back. Abandoning my perch, bare feet sinking into the ground, I don’t regret my decision. The fruit fits in the palm of my hand, encapsulated in my fist. If I had to name it, I would call it moonfruit. Chipped and uneven, the edges reminded me of broken glass slicing into my skin. Fragments of a mirror, reflections of time staring back at me.

My skin prickles violently. Gooseflesh. My frame is wracked by shivers, shuddering in the cool night. I remember the way we sang to each other and the way the waves tickled my feet at night. When you look at the water, notice the way the light ripples on its surface. Look closer, careful now. Look at yourself. Is that really you? Blink once–make sure your eyes aren’t deceiving you. There it is–you can see her too, right?

In my restless dreams, I see constellations: blurry, nameless, soulless things, these empty bodies with meaningless thoughts. I could join them if I tried; If I could free my thoughts into the air and scatter their burnt remains up above. I tasted stardust when I let myself go.

I hate the life that was set out before me, all of the beautiful things I lost. I mourn the idea of us, the dead memories buried in the yard with the mysterious vanishing fruit. We were bound together by a thread, the same one sewn into the curtain. You ripped the string from my navel, and I fell, with no one to catch me.

Suddenly, I forgot how to cry. All of the water has dried up, and I am left behind in this barren desert with my mind and insatiable thoughts. You asked for everything, and I couldn’t even give you my tears. So you lit the desert ablaze, and the night watches on with its obdurate heart, unmoving. I am in the middle somewhere, still alive. How could I separate myself from you when you follow me everywhere? I will never know.

The sobs leaked out of me like ashes, a steady rate of decay. Moonlit tears, they glowed like the fruit I buried in the yard. You look just as beautiful as the night I was born. I looked into your eyes and I saw God, my creator. I wasn’t your creation; I was simply the manifestation of your sorrow.

Puckered and sallow, the house is empty now. A dead house smells like animals, rot sinking into skin, and the door is sealed shut. But even the dead things find love in the world next door. I think that being empty is worse than being dead. We are shaped by the people around us, those who breathe life into us and teach us how to be real.

I can’t help but think of the goosebumps that raised your skin several nights ago. We were lost at sea. The ocean was dark and angry, and you were so scared. You didn’t know how to save us, so instead you threw me into the water and hoped for the sea to decide my fate. Did you want me to die, or yourself?

The flesh cleaves apart. Pale and apparent, I look into the fruit, and all I can see is you. Us. I understand why the water was the wrong color, and I know that I am no longer dreaming. If I open my eyes, the water is pitch black, and all I can see are your sorrowful, silver eyes. Flesh of the moon. I look at you and I remember where I came from.

Hello, Mother.