The old man's eyes were filled with hatred and disgust as he glared at me. He sat in his chair, hunched over, picking at his cuticles. His thick beard, sprinkled with flecks of gray, was a reminder of his lost youth. He wore glasses that were old and dirty, the screws rusted and the temples tight on his face. Hives covered his wrinkles and crevices, evidence of his anger and frustration.
The rain outside pounded against the stained windows of the old cabin, making the old wood creak and moan. The old man liked it here, it was quiet and peaceful. He would often listen to the blue jays outside, feeding them bits of bread. He preferred the company of animals to humans, whom he despised. He wrote to me about how humans were like oil in water, polluting and ruining the purity of nature. He believed that humans were corrupt, marking the land with their blood and anger.
But out of all the animals, the old man had a particular fondness for moths. He kept small cages, the size of a jewelry box, filled with moth larvae and sometimes imagos. He would inspect them carefully, gently pulling their wings from their plump bodies and twisting their delicate legs. He would whisper to them, telling them that they were safe in his hands. This obsession with moths had started in his youth, when his father had joined a therapy group that used butterflies as a symbol of growth and the end of addiction. His father was a devout man, always believing that he was god's right hand. He imposed his beliefs on his son, molding him into the angry, bitter old man that he had become.
I think the spark of his obsession happened when the old man's wife died. Her name wasMary, and she was a modest woman. Her body told the story of a dark future. Her skin was pale and waxen, her bones fragile like a flower petal. Her eye bags were swollen, the blood a deep ruby color swirling underneath her thin skin. Her voice was soft and tiny, in contrast to her aged appearance. She had lung cancer, but that didn't stop her from relieving her stress with the occasional cigarette.
Sometimes I would hear the old man crying in his room, his face wet and dripping. He would whisper to her, quoting scripture about how the Lord takes delight in his people and crowns the humble with salvation. She died in December, just before Christmas. She was cremated on Christmas Day. The old man wrote to me, saying that the only way he could sleep peacefully was with her urn beside him.
And so I sit here with him, feeling timid and nervous. I try to avoid his deadly gaze, but my eyes keep darting to him. The silence is heavy and daunting. My tongue swirls around in my mouth, trying to decide whether or not to speak. My body twitches slightly, my palms clammy. I didn't realize how difficult it would be to have a conversation with this man. It's not that I have trouble communicating; it's just that standing near him makes me feel ill. But I have to talk to him, I have no choice.
He suddenly rises from his chair, aggressively walking towards the kitchen. He stands in front of the rusty sink, holding a dirty, torn sponge. The smell in the cabin is overwhelming, a mixture of rotting wood and the old man himself. It makes my nose ache.
"You are here for a reason, and yet you stay silent. I have to ask whyyou intrude on my space and waste my time." His voice is deep and strained, and he turns on the tap in the sink. The water comes out in a sad little stream. My lips wobble and tears gather in the corners of my eyes, but I muster up the courage to reply.
My mother ran away from home a few years ago. My father had beaten her nearly to death, and my breath shook as I asked, "She came here, didn't she? You took care of my mother?" I finished. By now, he had sat back down in his seat, steam rising from his cup of what appeared to be black tea. He also had a porcelain plate on his left, filled with moth larvae doused in what appeared to be red wine.
"Me and your mother were good friends, I'd like to think we were something more. It was a rainy day, just like this one. She ran to my doorstep, with clothes hanging off her tiny body by a thread. Her face was swollen and bruised, it pained me to see her like that," he paused, taking a sip from his cup. "She was like a pretty doll, what your father did was just..." his grip tightened on his fork, stabbing it into the larvae on his plate. He slowly raised the fork to his mouth, breathing in the musty smell of it. I tried to avert my attention to something else in the room, but the scene before me was too absurd to ignore. He chewed the moth like it was a chip, its green and blue innards leaking from the corner of his mouth and spilling onto the table. He continued to speak, mouth full, "A miserable man he must've been. She had told me she hadfinally run away from the devil, but he had already left his mark on her. I decided that I should make her beautiful again." He set the fork down on his plate, rising from his chair.
"Follow me now."
He walked towards a locked door, and I followed behind him, curious. The wood creaked beneath our feet. His calloused hand gripped the doorknob, the other fumbling in his pocket for his keys. He cursed at himself when he had trouble finding them.
After a few minutes, he found his keys and opened the door. The room felt suffocating and narrow. The ceiling had lace fabrics hanging down to the floor. On the right side of the room was a small, cameo-pink desk. On the left side was a bed fit for a queen. The bed frame was wooden and painted pearl-white. It was elegant.
"I made this room for her. This is where she will rest when I'm done," the old man stated softly, wiping off some dust on the desk.
"Over here," he walked towards a door connecting to another room. However, this time it was unlocked.
"In here lies my ultimate creation. Your mother has ascended to somewhere peaceful. She can now be cradled in the arms of a god."
I walked into the room, desperate to see my mother's body. My eyes twitched and my arms shook. I was scared, scared to see what had happened to my mother, my creator. The room was dimly lit, and I realized the storm had stopped outside by now.
It wasn't a pretty room, no. This was one splattered with the thick blood of my mother. I saw it with my own eyes, her body hung from the ceiling. Her back sliced open, blood dripping down to the tips of her toes. Pieces of her ribcage were shattered,the ones that weren't bent backwards like a moth. Her innards smothered all over them like a child's craft.
I started to rapidly pant, my fingers pulling on my eyes in pure horror. I started to scream and scream, it felt like my throat was ripping. I began punching my stomach and my heart, desperate to fight the urge to throw up.
Twisted, deranged- he had to be. Anger coursed through my body as I ran to the old man, grasping him by the hem of his shirt. The words barely came out of my mouth,
"Why!?" I cried out.
"Moths are born in the darkness. But sometimes, if they try hard enough, they can bloom into an angel, a butterfly. Can't you see I had turned your mother into something real, something beautiful? I gave her the wings to fly to her destiny. She's happy now," he was manic.
I wanted to kill this man, make him regret existing. But all I could do was fall to my knees and wail, like a lost child.
What I needed desperately were the warm arms of my mother. But now my mother's body lay limp, cradled in mine instead. She wasn't upset anymore, but I'd kill to comfort her one last time.
The rain outside pounded against the stained windows of the old cabin, making the old wood creak and moan. The old man liked it here, it was quiet and peaceful. He would often listen to the blue jays outside, feeding them bits of bread. He preferred the company of animals to humans, whom he despised. He wrote to me about how humans were like oil in water, polluting and ruining the purity of nature. He believed that humans were corrupt, marking the land with their blood and anger.
But out of all the animals, the old man had a particular fondness for moths. He kept small cages, the size of a jewelry box, filled with moth larvae and sometimes imagos. He would inspect them carefully, gently pulling their wings from their plump bodies and twisting their delicate legs. He would whisper to them, telling them that they were safe in his hands. This obsession with moths had started in his youth, when his father had joined a therapy group that used butterflies as a symbol of growth and the end of addiction. His father was a devout man, always believing that he was god's right hand. He imposed his beliefs on his son, molding him into the angry, bitter old man that he had become.
I think the spark of his obsession happened when the old man's wife died. Her name wasMary, and she was a modest woman. Her body told the story of a dark future. Her skin was pale and waxen, her bones fragile like a flower petal. Her eye bags were swollen, the blood a deep ruby color swirling underneath her thin skin. Her voice was soft and tiny, in contrast to her aged appearance. She had lung cancer, but that didn't stop her from relieving her stress with the occasional cigarette.
Sometimes I would hear the old man crying in his room, his face wet and dripping. He would whisper to her, quoting scripture about how the Lord takes delight in his people and crowns the humble with salvation. She died in December, just before Christmas. She was cremated on Christmas Day. The old man wrote to me, saying that the only way he could sleep peacefully was with her urn beside him.
And so I sit here with him, feeling timid and nervous. I try to avoid his deadly gaze, but my eyes keep darting to him. The silence is heavy and daunting. My tongue swirls around in my mouth, trying to decide whether or not to speak. My body twitches slightly, my palms clammy. I didn't realize how difficult it would be to have a conversation with this man. It's not that I have trouble communicating; it's just that standing near him makes me feel ill. But I have to talk to him, I have no choice.
He suddenly rises from his chair, aggressively walking towards the kitchen. He stands in front of the rusty sink, holding a dirty, torn sponge. The smell in the cabin is overwhelming, a mixture of rotting wood and the old man himself. It makes my nose ache.
"You are here for a reason, and yet you stay silent. I have to ask whyyou intrude on my space and waste my time." His voice is deep and strained, and he turns on the tap in the sink. The water comes out in a sad little stream. My lips wobble and tears gather in the corners of my eyes, but I muster up the courage to reply.
My mother ran away from home a few years ago. My father had beaten her nearly to death, and my breath shook as I asked, "She came here, didn't she? You took care of my mother?" I finished. By now, he had sat back down in his seat, steam rising from his cup of what appeared to be black tea. He also had a porcelain plate on his left, filled with moth larvae doused in what appeared to be red wine.
"Me and your mother were good friends, I'd like to think we were something more. It was a rainy day, just like this one. She ran to my doorstep, with clothes hanging off her tiny body by a thread. Her face was swollen and bruised, it pained me to see her like that," he paused, taking a sip from his cup. "She was like a pretty doll, what your father did was just..." his grip tightened on his fork, stabbing it into the larvae on his plate. He slowly raised the fork to his mouth, breathing in the musty smell of it. I tried to avert my attention to something else in the room, but the scene before me was too absurd to ignore. He chewed the moth like it was a chip, its green and blue innards leaking from the corner of his mouth and spilling onto the table. He continued to speak, mouth full, "A miserable man he must've been. She had told me she hadfinally run away from the devil, but he had already left his mark on her. I decided that I should make her beautiful again." He set the fork down on his plate, rising from his chair.
"Follow me now."
He walked towards a locked door, and I followed behind him, curious. The wood creaked beneath our feet. His calloused hand gripped the doorknob, the other fumbling in his pocket for his keys. He cursed at himself when he had trouble finding them.
After a few minutes, he found his keys and opened the door. The room felt suffocating and narrow. The ceiling had lace fabrics hanging down to the floor. On the right side of the room was a small, cameo-pink desk. On the left side was a bed fit for a queen. The bed frame was wooden and painted pearl-white. It was elegant.
"I made this room for her. This is where she will rest when I'm done," the old man stated softly, wiping off some dust on the desk.
"Over here," he walked towards a door connecting to another room. However, this time it was unlocked.
"In here lies my ultimate creation. Your mother has ascended to somewhere peaceful. She can now be cradled in the arms of a god."
I walked into the room, desperate to see my mother's body. My eyes twitched and my arms shook. I was scared, scared to see what had happened to my mother, my creator. The room was dimly lit, and I realized the storm had stopped outside by now.
It wasn't a pretty room, no. This was one splattered with the thick blood of my mother. I saw it with my own eyes, her body hung from the ceiling. Her back sliced open, blood dripping down to the tips of her toes. Pieces of her ribcage were shattered,the ones that weren't bent backwards like a moth. Her innards smothered all over them like a child's craft.
I started to rapidly pant, my fingers pulling on my eyes in pure horror. I started to scream and scream, it felt like my throat was ripping. I began punching my stomach and my heart, desperate to fight the urge to throw up.
Twisted, deranged- he had to be. Anger coursed through my body as I ran to the old man, grasping him by the hem of his shirt. The words barely came out of my mouth,
"Why!?" I cried out.
"Moths are born in the darkness. But sometimes, if they try hard enough, they can bloom into an angel, a butterfly. Can't you see I had turned your mother into something real, something beautiful? I gave her the wings to fly to her destiny. She's happy now," he was manic.
I wanted to kill this man, make him regret existing. But all I could do was fall to my knees and wail, like a lost child.
What I needed desperately were the warm arms of my mother. But now my mother's body lay limp, cradled in mine instead. She wasn't upset anymore, but I'd kill to comfort her one last time.
Support Mint Burks
