The Moth

I don’t understand; what inherently makes me more entitled to living than the moth I just killed?

Alone with it now in the dimmed silence of my empty apartment, I feel the makings of a spiritual dilemma all but stirring within me. I quietly resign myself to the inevitable process, bidding myself farewell.

Why did I do it? Did I need to?

I sink to my knees, centimeters away from the insect strewn now across my rotten wood floors.

Now that it’s not buzzing all around in its dizzying quickness I take a good look at it. I realize, I’ve never really stopped to behold a moth before; the intricacies in its wing pattern– the circles resembling eyes on its wings, the flushed out greys and whites… Why does marveling at the beauty of creation first require destruction?

If this were a cockroach it’d be easier to villainize it. Right? The pest of all pests, enough to stoke fear in anyone just by mere thought. Moths are innocuous nothings, mildly annoying at best. Still beside its carcass I attempt to retrace my thoughts just before I made the call to end its life.

I mean, it came in here doing nothing wrong. It did nothing wrong. It didn’t know it was flying into a trap of death.

I had mindlessly watched it do a few laps around the living room. For a few moments I contemplated leaving it alone. After all, it posed no true harm to me.

I tried to coexist with it briefly, really. I gave the idea a chance. This moth and I: a new family. Living with it in neutral silence wouldn’t be so different from most marital dynamics.

I was not a murderer from the outset.

I saw it come in through the kitchen window; my first and only visitor.

I looked away from it and went back to minding my own business. I was working on my laptop.

And then out of nowhere it sprang into abruptness and pulled me out of the moment. Exalting itself upon me as if to say, LOOK AT ME! I’M HERE. It crash-landed against the computer screen before redirecting its flight. I was jolted, of course. Just because I wasn’t paying attention to it at that very instant didn’t mean I’d forgotten its existence.

Thinking back on it now, I feel guilty. Maybe I didn’t give it adequate attention at that moment. All of us wish to be seen, to be heard, to be felt.

What was so offensive about that?

I went back to twiddling away on the computer. Taken by a sudden thirst I sought after a glass of water.

I switched the lights on in the kitchen and then it materialized again, this time too close to my eyes. I flailed around like an idiot, but I don’t know where it got off flapping around so frantically. Were we not on good enough terms for it to relax around me at this point?

It’s so still and alienating here. There’s a faint streak of blood at the crime scene.

Do you see the callous situation it put me in? Not only do I need to dispose of the body, I also have to clean up the blood. Pretend it never happened.

I have to brace myself to recount the third encounter with my brand new roommate, this being the fatal one. I’m sorry that I’ve made you an accomplice.

I take in a deep breath.

I’m struggling with this because, on some level, I see myself in the moth; in its puniness, in its lack of self-awareness and recklessness. A stumbling, wandering idiot. It came in here and died to serve as some metaphysical reminder: I’m in less control than I think. Sure, one would think I had the upper hand here– but did I really? Look at this conflict anchoring itself in my psyche, uprooting everything I had previously held as true. It’s winning, I’m losing. It grows with every thought and I can’t stop nourishing it.

Witnessing and ending a life just isn’t something I was prepared for. How does one prepare for such a thing? Does a sufficient amount of preparation exist?

My response to the existence of another life form is entirely reflective of myself and not it. Embedded on the broken moth’s body is the pathetic pattern of my inferiority. I am shrinking to its size.

It didn’t realize it was doing this to me when it came in here… or did it?

When the moth entered, I was suddenly assigned the biggest responsibility I've ever known; having to manage a life and decide what happens to it. Who bestowed this power upon me?

Who am I to play a part in anyone else’s story? I am hardly active enough in my own. It had to have known this!

I’m in tremors. I know that if I wait any longer I won’t be able to say it.

I feel like holding my breath.

Okay, the bathroom. I was going to the bathroom.

I used the toilet and got up to wash my hands. I was already slipping away, being pulled in another direction.

I made the bold choice to corner myself and look at my reflection, I should’ve known this was a bad idea. Looking at it has never done me any favors before.

There it was again: encircling my entire visage as if charting the area before planning a full-on attack. Why did I think that?

It was just moving so fast. I couldn’t stand being startled again. I welled up with a misguided defensive rage and grabbed my towel. I didn’t even allow it to explain itself!

I’m still sitting beside it on the floor. Am I really expected to move it or myself at any point? Am I expected to live with this?

Does it sense my remorse?

I have to imagine that it picked me deliberately; it sensed my energy when it came in and it knew to choose me. Of course, that’s it– it was a self-sacrifice. A test. It could smell the fragility I emanate. It wanted me to confront myself. That must be why it got so close to my eyes; it wanted me to see. It wasn’t trying to sell me on my propensity for sudden monstrosity. It wanted me to rise to the occasion for once in my life; to identify a grievance and do something about it before it gnawed away at me for much longer. The whole thing was an act.

This revelation is a renewal; I could kiss the moth. In taking its life it’s left me a gift. Has truer selflessness ever been displayed?