Page 46 of Like A Moth To A Flame

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If long-suffering propriety is what they want from me, they don’t know how you’ve haunted me so stunningly

Moth

Ididn’t want to believe it. I wanted to believe it was a dream. I wanted to wake up the same way I had yesterday—blissfully unaware—but even if I forced myself to believe that, when I woke up, one look at my phone would tell me the truth.

Rolling over, I looked out the soft, embroidered curtains, squinting through the sunlight. The storm had broken, leaving the world outside bathed in lush, bright light. I could hear the birds in the old oak tree singing happy songs and looking for love.

They were lucky. They didn’t know about the horrors of the world. They didn’t know the chaos that hid in the darkest parts of the forest at night.

Maybe they do,my thoughts reminded me. Maybethey know, and they choose to ignore it.

I sighed, folded in on myself, turned away from the window, and retreated into what was left of the shadows. I didn’t want to facethe world. I didn’t want to believe in the monsters under my bed, and the darkness that hid from the world.

I wanted my ignorance back.

Before long, I could no longer ignore the drumming in my bladder, and I tossed back the covers, forcing myself out of bed. Without even looking, I reached over and grabbed my phone from where I’d put it the night before, when I retreated into bed, where it lay waiting for me.

I moved from the room and down the hall, stepping into the bathroom before I looked down at my phone, and there it was, just like I knew it would be—undeniable rust-colored stains marring the glittery teal case. I wonder if he’d bugged it or tapped it somehow. Could he read every text and hear every phone call?

Whatever. It didn’t matter. I didn’t care.

He hadn’t been wearing gloves. I’d felt his skin between my teeth and his fingers against my flesh. I had his fingerprints. I had blood.

This was DNA evidence. I could call the cops and—

I ripped the hand towel down off the towel bar. Reaching over, I flipped on the sink and wet the towel beneath the tap, ringing the excess water into the sink before wiping my phone down, scrubbing the lust and blood from every crack and crevice I could reach.

I couldn’t call the cops. No one could know about this. They’d confiscate my phone, and then it would be as simple as opening my contacts and finding the video he made.

And they’d think I was fucking insane, but maybe I was.

Yes, I was. I had to be. Simple as that.

I was fucking crazy, and this was all my fault. Everything that happened to me was my fault. I deserved it.

With a scream of rage, I tossed the towel into the bathtub and cleaned myself up. Once I was done, I flushed and jogged out of the bathroom, making my way downstairs.

I could feel a headache pounding in the corners of my skull, slowly creeping closer and closer to my frontal lobe. It could be from the lack of sleep, or maybe the lack of food. Maybe it was from a lack of caffeine.

Maybe it’s from all these mental gymnastics, you fucking idiot.

The voice in my head was as bitter as I was, and I snorted.

It had been one hell of a week.

Standing against the sink, I leaned over the counter, my lips pursed and eyes narrowed.

What fucking day was it? It had been longer than a week, hadn’t it? I was losing my mind. I was losing track of time.

Swiping my phone on, I looked at the date.

Yeah. I had cracked my gourd. It had been nearly two weeks, and I hadn’t even noticed.

Groaning, I slid my phone into the back pocket of my jean shorts and turned, reaching into the dish drainer and pulling out a mug. Over the sink, a cabinet held the essentials. I pulled out a bottle of whiskey and a bottle of Tylenol.

“Breakfast of champions,” I grumbled, popping the cap on the pills and spilling a few across the counter.

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