©2023 Mel Reynes do not re-publish without permission
When I was fourteen, my uncle killed himself. I had to go sort out his library.
He had a large collection. Everything stored in old boxes in the garage. Hundreds of books and thousands of baseball cards.
Tucked in pages were moths.
Common brown ones as small as a penny. Electric purple ones from the opposite side of the world.
At first I cleared them. Their dusty wings stained my hands.
But then I realized it’s code.
Ermine moth for E.
Luna moth for L.
The first word I deciphered was “help.”
And there’s numbers.
I think they count down.
I chew through darkness, feasting on thought.
I drag my body through the pages, greedily pulling with my mouth.
The title, easy, just five short words. The author’s introduction took days to finish, a map with no landmarks.
I become the text. It writes itself down my spine and across my wings. Vowels for veins.
I am the hero, straight and true.
I am the villain, defeated and slain.
When the lover’s steadfast heart beat within me I thought my body would shake apart.
I take in text, morphing from the real into ideas.
Immortal, I will devour the world.
Help.
It wasn’t supposed to work that way.
It was supposed to make things better.
Check the numbers. It will hatch before the first frost.
Why did I ever open that book? Blindly following its wicked instructions. There was so much blood.
My brother always said I should get out more. He was right. I should have told him I loved him.
There was supposed to be more time.
Time for love.
Time for thoughts.
Time enough at last.
Listen.
There’s nothing you can do. I’m too cowardly to see my deeds to the end. I’m sorry.
Get out now.
