SOBS: Fiction: Moth

Moth by Jason Anthony Stavroupolos

(This is the second of a two-part story. Click here to read from the beginning of the story.)

This is where I am going
This is where I have been.
To find myself in the present
I use these as proof of origin.

The day has gone and succumbed to night. The neon sun rises within the city, reflecting blues and oranges from pockets of oil in the street. The faces of people have turned a pallid color and their eyes have sunken in sockets dark with knowing. The passing head lamps of cars set off flashbulb explosions of pictures in my mind. Blinking does not make them stop and I grow dizzy from the expectancy of what the next image will reveal. I turn away from the mainstream of life onto a street still and empty. Standing has proven to be quite difficult and so sitting down at the edge of a curb I rest my face in my hands. Things are coming rapidly now.

... the woman is lying on the street, twisted into an unnatural position, with a dark pool growing out from under her. Near-by there is the crumpled corpse of a car, glass glitters on the ground and I feel as if I should be there. I know this woman of my dreams, I can help her. Why am I not there? The dark mass growing beneath her stretches to the edge of the street and I know now that I am too late. People stand by and watch as her life flows out of her and into the sewer. The sirens from the ambulance scream for lack of punctuality and the glittering glass now flickers red ...

Tears stream warmly over my fingers and into my mouth tasting sweet and bitter.

"My wife is dead." I tell the streetlight and it flickers its condolences. Her memory has found its place in my mind and so I lay her image to rest.

"Good-bye, Anastasia," and with that I stand up and begin to walk home.

Photographic images still come sporadically, faces of people I don't know, their bodies twisted and malformed. From these I grasp nothing and continue walking. I turn into a darkened alleyway that seems to have no end. The maze is no longer familiar. Shadows run up and down the bricked walls, chasing me, taking on the forms of faces I have seen before. They are the faces of a jury that has found someone guilty. They know who I am, they know what I am, what I have done. I break out into a run knowing now that the only place safe is home, locked up.

Suddenly from out of the cardboard depths arises a wild-eyed man. Thrusting himself upon me, he blocks my path.

"Can you help me?" he pleads. His eyes have a muddled look to them, a searching bewilderment.

"What is it that you want of me?" I demand as I throw my hands between he and I. His face has matted hair surrounding those eyes. His smell is repulsive.

"I was once a thief, but a thief I am no longer. Now I can only steal pity from people for eternity. Can you save me?" he asked again.

As he held onto the front of my coat, wringing the fabric in his hand, I felt the passing of a familiar hand wash over me. Without any anxiety, I reach down into my pocket.

"Yes, I can save you." I said.

From down the alleyway I hear a muffled scream and turn to look. There is a wraith-like figure evaporating into the darkness and the form of a body slumped against the wall. It protestingly falls to the ground. I turn to look back at the thief, but he is gone.

"Someone, is someone there?"

A voice asks, "Help me ... please." Her voice has the rasping sound of mucus or bubbles in her throat.

Click here to return to "Caterpillar"