The moth

A single, lonesome chime from the ice-battered bell tower; an hour past midnight.

The silhouette of a man slouched on the side of the road, the reflections of the moth and the flame dancing back and forth, back and forth in his narrowed onyx eyes.

His skin stretched over protruding bones, reminiscent of the melted wax of a twice used candle. His fists clenched so tightly against the cold that beads of blood sprang from the lines in his palm and his knuckles burned white as the moon. Numb fingers desperately clasped a single withered leaf to the palm of his hand.

He was young, more or less, and his eyes followed the moth with such a burning intensity that it seemed to be almost a part of him.

A street lamp, old fashioned with a real flame and not a gas light. An inch wide fissure ran down the side of its glass case.

A moth, delicate, translucent ivory wings beating in time with the man’s fluttering eyelids, darting around and around, closer and closer to the exposed flame.

A breath of wind chilled the back of the man’s neck. Does it know, he wondered idly, that it is flying to its death? It did not seem to, for it circled the flame without even a semblance of caution. He could see the madness, hear the desperation, in each halting, shuddering beat of its wings.

It needs warmth. And it did need warmth, relief from the bitter reality of winter. And suddenly, the cold slipped over him like a blanket, burrowing under his skin with prying fingernails. It no longer pressed in from outside, but tore at him from within, like the drug, like the moth’s flame, a part of him.

For a moment, the moth turned and fluttered in the other direction, and the man felt something ignite in his chest.

Yes. Resist. Fight the pull. But the moth, as if dragged by a fishing line, veered towards the allure of the flame. Towards the lie of the flame. No, he corrected, the flame gives what it promises and no more; it is not the flame who lies, but the moth who does not see.

A heartbeat.

The moth veered away, and the man let out a breath. He hadn’t known that he’d been holding it at all, and it burned before his eyes, a swirling twist of gray against the stark white snow and the ebony star-sprinkled sky.

His gaze landed on the small crooked tree to the left of the lamp.

Do they speak as we do? He found himself wondering. When the wind darts through their leaves, does it act as messenger? And what do they say of us? Are we the subject of their envy? Or does our need for the material evoke their scorn?

He clutched the leaf tighter in his hand and turned back to the moth, closer, ever closer. A mere inch away from the glass.

His wings spread, as if to bask in the warmth. The glow of the fire tore across its body with twisting veins of gold, and light from the moon and the stars brushed against its back.

The moth slipped through the crack in the glass, and he closed his eyes.

For a moment, its dark winged silhouette burned beneath his eyelids, but in a moment, it faded. Eyelids flickered. Opened.

The night was still. He let out a breath, and the cold seeped in and the drug burned against his crimson-streaked palm.

Then, a flicker of movement. The moth, its flight hindered by its one charred wing, stumbled through the wind-scattered air as if drunk.

A laugh drifted up from somewhere within him. It rang unfamiliar and uncertain in his ears. Tinged with irony, yes, but something else, something true, lurked just beneath the surface. He threw his head back and laughed some more, and the sound that rang through the silent night was neither pure joy nor pure sadness, but a mixture of both and much more. He watched the moth struggle through the air, watched it flutter and duck out of sight.

The laughter died on his lips. He lingered a moment longer, then, slowly, he rose and trudged through the snow.

They were still one, man and leaf, and the drug was still clutched in his hand. But perhaps the man’s grasping fingers were not quite so desperate. Perhaps his grip was not quite as strong.

Author: Prisha Mehta

Prisha Mehta is a passionate writer and a high school student from Millburn, New Jersey. Her work has been recognized by the Scholastic Art and Writing Awards, and she has pieces published or forthcoming in a number of literary journals, including The Baltimore Review, Ginosko, Asymmetry, The Copperfield Review, Gravel, Five on the Fifth, and Déraciné. When she isn’t writing, she might be found scrolling through psychology articles, sketching in her notebook, or (of course) reading. You can find out more about her at prishamehta.com.

Photographer: Joey Aronhalt

Joey Aronhalt is an Akron, Ohio based film photographer. His work has been shown internationally in countries such as Italy, Greece, and South Korea. All of the work shown in these countries were created through the use of traditional medium format film, which is his primary medium. Through the use of film, his primary goal is to make the viewer question what is going on, beyond surface level questions.