moths

There was so much darkness in the beginning, then suddenly, from nowhere, the window appeared. 

It was modest, with a peeling white frame and deep, velvety blue curtains that hung loosely from its sides. I had wanted so desperately to reach my arm out and stroke the curtains with my fingertips, but I couldn’t see my body. I couldn’t feel my body. I had no weight to myself, but I could feel the wood beneath me, the dirt above me. 

The window, in its modest nature, revealed nothing to me at first, as if it were sheepish. All I could see was tall grass that insisted upon dancing for me, swaying side to side as the wind swirled it around. The sky was so dazzlingly blue that whatever eyes that I had left teared and burned at its brilliance; I wanted to shield myself and look away, but I couldn’t. Whatever autonomy I had was stripped away from me, all I could do was stare and weep with tears that didn’t exist. 

A moth appeared sometime afterwards; I can’t remember when it did and shortly after it arrived I could not imagine a time when it hadn’t been there. I watched as it would slowly open and close its buttery, ash colored wings, flitting between curtain to curtain. I watched it rest on the window frame, and it watched me as well. 

Soon, the window began to reveal more to me. 

One day, if time even still exists, I saw two figures heading towards the window. One was significantly smaller than the other, and was holding something rather loosely in one of its hands. I tried to squint, to move closer to the window, but I couldn’t. I was desperate to see who the figures were. Whatever was left of my skin began to itch and crawl. 

Soon, the two figures came closer and I wanted to leap from the window. The smaller figure was my daughter, and she was approaching the window slowly, holding a bouquet of white roses in her hand, a bouquet that she was pinching with two fingers, as if at any moment she’d desert them and run away. Her hair was ragged and knotted, her face had a sort of feverish flush to it. Her mother was trailing behind her, staring up uneasily at the sky. 

“Papa?” my daughter said. Her voice was hoarse. Her voice sounded like the voice of an old woman, and it was jarring to hear, jarring to see come from a young girl. I felt terribly sad for a moment, because it seemed as if I did not know her, did not know who and where this voice was coming from. “Papa?”

“Helene,” her mother said. Her hair was pinned back. She wasn’t looking at the window at all. “Be quick.”

No, my mouthless, voiceless, un-body said, no, my love, take your time. Speak to me. Speak. 

“Papa…” she began again, hesitantly. I watched her slowly walk up to the window, so close that I could count her eyelashes if I so wanted to. She laid the bouquet beside the window, and bent over to tie her shoelaces. After she was finished, she backed away, and rubbed her nose vigorously. “Papa…where are you?” 

My love, I am here. I am looking at you through the window. Do you see me?

“It’s not fair,” she whispered. “It’s not fair.”

What are you speaking of? Helene?

A part of me began to panic. I kept trying to break free of whatever chasm held me, to reach out the window and grab her, but the harder I fought the tighter its grip became. 

Helene, what’s happened? Where am I? Darling, could you help me?

“We have to go,” her mother called from behind, already walking away, trailing an arm behind her for Helene to grab onto. “Come on, now.”

Helene took one last solemn look at the window, at the flowers she left behind, and I saw something stirring in her eyes. Tears, an ocean of them, a million feet deep, threatening to spill and drown her completely. However, she stiffened, and followed her mother away from the window, clasping her hand and leaving until she was a shadow in the distance. 

Helene…no…stay, please…I beg you…

But the window, once modest and shy, suddenly became ruthless. It became cruel. In its pitiless way, it did not permit me to run to it and throw it open, to call out to my daughter and let her hear my voice. It did no such thing. I watched, horrifically, as the curtains slowly came together and engulfed me in darkness. I could no longer even see the moth, my only companion. 

   —

Some time later, the curtains parted all the way to the sides, and I braced myself to be blinded by the dazzle of the bright blue sky, but there was no such thing. The sky was dark, foreboding. The grass was no longer dancing, and it was raining fiercely. 

The moth seemed to be resting, it was laying still on the left curtain. I wished I could speak to it, that the two of us could have some semblance of understanding, despite the fact that we were two vastly different creatures. But I knew that just like everybody else, it would not be able to comprehend anything I could desire to say to it. 

Another figure appeared in the distance. I began to grow excited. Perhaps it was Helene again. But this figure was hesitant; it was pacing back and forth, wringing its hands together anxiously as the rain poured down upon them. The figure hadn’t even brought an umbrella. 

As the figure ventured closer, I knew who it was immediately without seeing its face. Tears were streaming down its face, mixing with the salty tears of the sky. 

It was Annette. My lover. 

She stood above the window and wept, wiping her eyes and her nose vainly. She was wearing a long green coat. It made her eyes so much more beautiful. Her hair was drenched, hanging down her shoulders in long wet curls. 

“I-I just don’t understand,” she sobbed. She tossed her head to the sky, and to my shock, began to scream, her voice raw and as baleful as a knife. “I don’t understand!”

Annette?

I met her after I caught Helene’s mother with another man. Annette was the sister of one of my colleagues. I met her during dinner with his family. I was always a nervous man, shy and terribly introspective. I remained quiet and sullen as we dined, but as soon as she came into the room and introduced herself, my heart was pierced by a thousand different arrows, all lethal, all wonderful. With her twinkling green eyes, beautiful red dress and sing-song voice, she had me in the palm of her hand the moment she walked into the room. 

“They’re all talking about you, you know,” she sniffed, her eyes bitter, her childlike hands clenched into fists. “Everybody is. They keep saying how tragic it all was, and how dearly you’re missed. But you know what? It just infuriates me. They have no right to say those words. They did not know you the way I knew you. They have no right to grieve.”

Annette, darling. Why is there a need for anybody to grieve? I’m right here, right behind the window. Can’t you see me? I’m right behind the window, I’m right behind the-

“As mad as it sounds,” she said suddenly, in between her sobs, “Perhaps I should unearth you, dig your body up and see if you’re still there, if you’re still you. Maybe if I use a hammer and break open that coffin, you-you-” she paused, heaved out a particularly heavy sob that made her knees shake, “-you’d be there. As you always were.”

Annette, darling, why don’t you understand? I’M RIGHT HERE. Do not cry, I AM RIGHT HERE I AM-

I watched with dreadful nausea as the curtains began to slowly close again. 

NO, PLEASE, LET ME SEE HER, JUST PLEASE LET ME SEE HER. 

The curtains joined their dark, velvety blue hands together and the darkness, with its insatiable mouth, swallowed me whole. 

—

When the windows opened again, I felt exhausted. Whatever body was left, mutilated and disformed and abstract as it may be, felt weary and torn, shredded like a piece of paper. I wanted to rest. I wanted to sleep. I no longer knew if I could. My eyes were not mine to close anymore. 

I was prepared for a figure to come this time. This one was tall and broad-shouldered, and was walking towards the window rather hurriedly. The closer it got I could tell it was a man, a man who looked so much like me that I nearly screamed. 

He had my unruly dark hair, deep-set eyes and my long, crooked nose, even the same shaped hands as mine, down to the curve of his thumb. It was my brother. 

He hesitated for a moment before he spoke. He ran his knuckles across his jaw, once, twice, three times. 

“I know you’re in there. Peter, I know you are. I know you can hear me.”

Alexander?

“I know you’re likely staring up at me, from somewhere, someplace that my mind can’t comprehend,” he continued. “And…I’m not afraid of that. I’m…happy. Happy that you can hear me, happy that we can have some sort of conversation.”

Alexander…Oh God…you would not believe what has been happening to me, Alexander, I think that-

“Remember the river we used to play beside when we were kids? One day, I went there alone to swim. I told myself that I didn’t need you. Despite that you were my elder brother, and your job was to protect me, I convinced myself that I didn’t need you. I almost died that day. I remember thinking that somebody was going to find my tiny, bloated body, and that’d be my story. Child recklessly drowns himself in a river. But by some miracle I made it out alive.”

He paused. 

You never told me. 

“I never did tell you that story,” he whispered. He pinched his eyes shut for a moment. “Sometimes…I wish I had drowned.”

And just like the curtains during a theatrical act, they closed, and the darkness swallowed me once more.

—

The next time they parted, the moth was flying about. It seemed restless. It could not stop moving. I followed it with my eyes, or whatever was left of them, wondering when it would stop moving. It only did when the figure in the distance appeared. 

The grass was gone now, covered with brilliant white snow, snow that was sparkling and bright and cold to the eyes. It was so real. I could reach out and touch it, squeeze it in my palm. 

The person who appeared now, was, at first, somebody I thought that I had never met before. It was a young woman, perhaps in her early twenties, holding loosely a white bouquet in her hand. She had long auburn hair, a crooked nose and a freckled face. In a moment of pure adrenaline and anguish, I realized who it was. 

Helene. 

“Papa” she said, coming close, so close her breath could have fogged upon the window, placing the bouquet down. She stepped back, her boots crunching in the snow. “Papa, I’ve missed you.”

I’ve missed you more, my love. 

“I apologize for not visiting in the past month…my work has been quite hectic, but I must…I must confess something.”

Confess away, my darling. 

“I…” she looked away suddenly from the window, away into the distance. “I know that I’m talking to you. My father. But sometimes…I forget you. I forget who you are. I haven’t seen you in so long. And there aren’t many photographs of you…I forget what you look like. Mama says you looked a lot like Uncle Alexander, and he comes by sometimes but I…” she paused, and a singular tear dribbled down her flushed cheek. “...I don’t even know who you are.”

Helene, please…

“And that frightens me, Papa.”

As she turned to walk away, the curtains closed. And in a way, I was glad they did. 

—

I wanted to see Annette, but the next time the curtains parted, she was nowhere to be found. It was Alexander, trudging through the snow, his neck and ears red, a ratted old jacket upon his body. He looked down at the window with disdain. 

“I know you’re in there. Peter, I know you are. I know you can hear me.”

Ander, have you seen Annette lately? Is she well? Ander? 

He rubbed his hands together and glanced up at the sky, quickly, almost as if he was afraid of what could be hiding up there. He coughed, once, twice, three times. 

“I’ve become a fearful man, Peter,” he began. “I suppose that I’m treating these visits as confessions, aren’t I?”

What is there to fear, brother?

“I fear…” he looked through the window, straight at me, straight to my soul. “I fear what will become of me. What will happen to me once my body goes to where yours is now.”

Do you mean where I am behind the window?

“I’ve never been a religious man,” his eyes are glassy and still, like marbles pushed into his eye sockets, where real eyes should be. “I read the Bible the other day however. I read one particular story. The story of Cain and Abel and I wept. My tears wrinkled the pages. Does that count as blasphemy?”

I had no chance to respond as the windows pulled shut. 

—

This time when the curtains parted, I noticed that the moth was dead. It was laying on the window frame, on its back, unmoving. The white paint had completely peeled back to reveal dark, rotting wood, and upon closer inspection, the curtains were torn and ratted, no longer sheen and velvety. There was a stench coming from the moth, something not of this world, something dark and horrific, like the smell of a corpse. 

Alexander was standing at the window, ready for me. He was weeping openly. I hadn’t seen him weep like that since we were children. He didn’t even weep so openly when Father died. 

Alexander’s appearance had completely changed. He was an old man now, hunching forwards on a cane, his dark hair turned white as snow, and it stood out against the darkness of the night around him, giving him an unearthly kind of glow. His face was lined with wrinkles, his hands gnarled and bony. 

“I know you’re in there. Peter, I know you are. I know you can hear me.” he wept. 

Ander?

“Oh…oh God…oh…” he was in hysterics, his entire body convulsing. “Forgive me…forgive me…”

Ander? Ander, what on earth is happening? Why are you so upset?

He tossed his head back and howled. 

“I never meant to…I was just so angry…I was scared…”

Scared of what? What frightens you so much, brother?

Snowflakes were landing and melting on the window, distorting the image of the broken man before me. Alexander hobbled closer, nearly stumbling over himself and into the snow. He was shivering madly, and the glow in his eyes reminded me of the eyes of a rabid dog. 

“I had to do what I did, I had…you remember the man that you caught Katrina with, on that night so many years ago? They were in a hotel room, the room had smooth red carpet and a bottle of wine on the table next to the bed….it had white windows with blue velvet curtains that hung to the floor, they were pretty, but moth-eaten. You caught her there, with a man. But before you could confront him, he sprinted out of the room, jumping out of the window. You remember, Peter? Do you?”

I…I…

Within seconds, memory flooded me. Katrina lying on the bed, blankets pulled up to her neck to cover herself, her mouth opened in shock. “Peter,” she had said, tears welling in her eyes, “How did you…who told you I was here?”

The carpet was smooth under my shoes, there were pillows tossed to the floor, the curtains were dancing with the breeze from the open window. The man had just run out, his back turned to me as he fled through the window, a cowardly thing to do, I remember thinking. Everything happened so fast, I remember everything breaking inside of me, everything breaking like glass…

“That man…the one who ran out the window…it was me, Peter. I was so ashamed…and I was scared. I was scared that you would find out. After the divorce, you were asking around…trying to find out who the man was…the shame was going to kill me. If word got out that I was sleeping with my brother’s wife, my reputation would’ve been ruined…”

Alexander? 

“I don’t know who I am,” he howled into the snowy night, collapsing onto the snow, digging his hands into it, “How can a man change so much but not change at all? How, Peter?”

The curtains began to stir, to dance, just like they had all those years ago. It was a waltz, and they were inviting me to join. They began to come closer together, slowly, slowly. I knew in what was left of my soul that this time, once they closed, they would never part again. 

“I killed you, brother,” Alexander said solemnly, his dark eyes burrowing into me, “I killed you…and I’m sorry. One day, I’ll pay for what I’ve done…God will deal with my soul…”

As the curtains closed, I felt nothing, just a sense of silence and peaceful darkness all around me, enveloping me. It was warm. I could rest now.