Page 51 of Fool Moon First Aid

“It sounds like being married to a preacher, or women like my mom, who married a man heavily influenced by the church,” I reflect, a wave of sadness washing over me. “Always on display, expected to be flawless, a paragon of virtue and grace.”

“That’s hitting the nail on the head,” he says a bit more vigorously as he goes back to cleaning my wound. I bite my tongue, fighting back a yelp. “She had to play her role within the clan and then be someone totally different in private. I couldn’t stand it. Dad’s all about the old ways.”

“What does that even mean?” I ask, curiosity piqued, even through the discomfort.

“He’s convinced that spiritkin are just…superior, but he’s careful not to tick off the spirit comet.” His tone darkens. “Crossing the spirit comet means losing our human disguise. He’s a firm believer that we should have stayed hidden, using the hunters as his Exhibit A.”

“Playing devil’s advocate here,” I venture, pushing past his initial scoff. “Was he onto something?”

“Hunters have always been lurking around, long before we stepped into the light,” he explains, his voice taking on a distant quality as he finishes up with my wound. “They come from a lineage so deeply hidden, their true name remains a mystery. Back in the day, their craft was passed down from father to son.”

“How very misogynistic,” I scoff.

“Well, women were the bargaining chips, married off into power and wealth to pop out the next generation,” he adds, his disdain for the practice clear as day.

“Chattel,” I murmur, the word resonating deep within, sparking a fierce mix of anger and empathy.

“Yes.” Ethan pauses, a hint of reluctance flickering across his features, like he’s about to pull a thorn from a lion’s paw. “This is going to sting.” I inhale deeply, steeling myself against the anticipation of pain. “Breathe in and exhale.”

As the air whooshes out of me, a sharp pinch ignites a fire under my skin, potent enough to coax involuntary tears from my eyes. “Fun Dip. Fun Dip. Fun Dip,” I chant under my breath, turning my agony into a bizarre, candy-coated mantra, as if sweet thoughts could somehow sugarcoat the sting.

“It should start feeling numb now,” he murmurs, his focus on the intricate dance of the needle piercing my skin. “So, you’re a preacher’s daughter, huh?” The tease in his tone is like a flicker of light in the dim room, a spark of humor amidst the tension.

“Yes, no,” I gasp out as another wave of pain briefly crashes over me, then recedes, leaving me to catch my breath in its wake. Sneaking a quick glance at Ethan, I catch him in a moment of intense concentration, a slight furrow of concern between his brows. I redirect my gaze to the ceiling, its blank expanse offering a stark canvas to my swirling thoughts. Talking about myself feels like walking through a minefield, but his undivided attention makes the words spill from me. “My dad is deep in the Puritas way of life. I once thought he was a preacher, and he’s given sermons before, but he isn’t. He’s more of an overlord. It’s strange… He’s almost a nobody, and yet when we’d go to meetings, everyone knew him.”

He halts, the needle pausing midair, as if suspended by the weight of my words, before carefully disposing of it in a red biohazard bin. “Puritas?” The word seems to hang heavily between us, shadowed with worry and an unspoken question in his eyes.

That’s the bombshell effect I dread. Dropping life-altering revelations feels like a twisted talent of mine. “Yeah,” I whisper, the confession feeling like a key turning in a lock I didn’t know I had. “It took me years to piece together the puzzle of him and everyone knowing him.” Sometimes, I feel like I still have those rose-colored glasses on.

He nods, the gesture stiff with the gravity of my admission. It’s a strange kinship, understanding someone’s world can shatter with just a few words.

As he resumes his work, I let my eyes drift shut, emboldened by the darkness to reveal more of my soul’s scars. “My mama’s been gone,” I admit, the words as heavy as stones in my mouth, “for five years now.”

His touch remains gentle yet firm. “Just a bit longer, and it’ll take full effect, then I’ll swap out these sutures.”

“Okay.” My eyelids remain closed, a veil between me and looking Ethan in the eyes as I talk. “Curiosity got the better of me two years back. I hired a PI to dig into her death. She was found in a place that made no sense, out by Merger Ave. That night, she was acting off, and suddenly, my childhood made no sense at all.”

The sound of him preparing the instruments for the next step fills the brief silence, a clatter of plastic and metal that somehow sounds like the ticking of a clock.

“I needed you to hear this from me first. That PI laid out my life in a folder, drawing lines straight back to Puritas. Suddenly, the way we lived, why my mom changed—it all snapped into focus.” I admit to him.

“That’s a lot to sift through,” he comments, checking the numbness. “Feel anything?”

“Nope,” I reply, a thread of relief weaving through my tension. “We lived in a bubble. We didn’t have TV, and going to public school felt like a victory, but by then, Mama was too far gone, swallowed by the church’s shadow.”

“How so?” Ethan’s inquiry slices through the tension, his brows knitting together in concern as he leans in, the soft glow of the lamp casting shadows across his face.

“It didn’t hit me like a revelation, more like a creeping fog. Her laughter, once bright and infectious, started to fade into a rare, muted echo. She masked it well, but her eyes… They held stories of silent battles, shadowed with a melancholy she fought to hide. I buried myself in after-school activities—a desperate attempt to escape being smothered by the gloom that settled over our home…” I confess, my voice trailing off as I get lost in the memories that hang between us like thick smoke.

“Why avoid her? Maybe she needed you just as much.” His curiosity isn’t accusatory, just tinged with a genuine desire to understand.

A shrug lifts my shoulders. “Deep down, there was this gnawing feeling, like wearing a scratchy sweater that you can’t take off. Something felt off, and I couldn’t shake it. But I couldn’t face it either.”

He nods, his acknowledgment sending a ripple through the air, a silent salute to my younger self’s intuition. “That’s pretty insightful of you.”

“The sermons were just background noise, honestly. My trusty first-gen iPod was my tiny act of defiance. Hidden under layers of hair, my earbuds were my escape hatch, probably sparing me years of therapy,” I scoff, a brief spark of rebellious pride flickering in my eyes.

“But that also kept you in the dark,” he adds softly, his gaze not leaving mine, as if trying to read the chapters of my life that I never voiced out loud. “How did they find your mom?” His question is gentle, cautious, as if he’s afraid of unraveling me with just his words.

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