Page 11 of Moth
Either because they never noticed them in the first place, or because they aren’t around anymore to care.
Or they’re a deviant asshole who doesn’t deserve to own them.
Slowly, I return the bracelet and my other trinkets. Then I shove the box under my bed and start to pace, scrambling my thoughts into the semblance of stanzas. Phrases. Coherence.
I can’t control the direction they take—a dark path through two black eyes and stern, pink lips. A voice like crackling embers—I want to know what makes a little rabbit like you so damn hard she doesn’t flinch when a man presses a knife to her throat…
The answer is easy. Numbness.
Emptiness.
A pit in the core of my being that I dump every ounce of emotion into. A pen and paper are the only keys to releasing them.
Soon, I’m pawing through my end table drawer for a notepad, then pouring out a series of lines onto the page. In some ways, writing like this always feels like bleeding—purging.
As my pen scratches away, I find myself glancing up, spotting the object nestled on my nightstand beside my lamp. The tiny golden dragon laughs at me, its embossed eyes gleaming.
I don’t take my eyes off it as I scribble a title across the top of the page.Liar.
Maybe the man from the club had a point? Most of my writing centers around deception. Cheating. Lying.
It’s emotionless.
Numb.
They’re the only other states of being I’m good at embodying.
That, and being invisible. Safe. Unnoticed—until last night.
I eye my rabbit sweater lying on the top of my hamper with a pang of self-consciousness.It looks to me like she ain’t dressed to party. More like to poke her fucking nose around where it doesn’t belong. A reporter?
My outfit for today is even more muted, plain, and simple. To help lessen the effect, I drag a brush through my hair and arrange the strands around my face. It’s no use. I’m still the same old Hannah with dark brown waves, green eyes, and a forehead obscured by a curtain of blunt bangs. In defeat, I adjust my sleeves, tugging them down to my wrists to hide anything that might counteract that boring image.
As the fabric runs over my right forearm, I jump. It’s sore, throbbing if I focus on the pain for too long. So I ignore it, letting my hands fall to my sides as I enter my narrow living room.
It’s neat, consisting of a battered couch, an armchair, and little else. Peeling beige paint coats the walls, creating a somewhat cozy atmosphere—minus the hole beside my door.
It’s deep—a crater in the drywall, exposing the wooden guts beyond and part of the exterior.
There goes my deposit,a part of me remarks.
But I’m rubbing my arm again, unable to tear my gaze from the gaping, yawning hole.
Not until the musical ping of my cell phone accepting an incoming message cuts through the air.
You must have gone to bed early,Branden wrote.Text me when you wake up. I know you work today. I miss your smile.
A sigh escapes me as I reply—I’m awake.
Have a good day,he responds not even a second later.
I look up, eyeing my door. One of my first installations to this place when I moved in was a series of locks in addition to the deadbolt the door came with—four of them, all in a row.
Two sliding chains.
Two exterior deadbolts.
I undo them one by one and grab my bag before slipping out. They won’t be enough—already, they haven’t stopped their intended deterrent from getting in.
They never do.
