MOTH

...

This is our foreword: home is sick. With these fictions, paint over what has been done. We found all these things in grandpa’s old suitcase—he died a slow and cruel man. He never let us take that train to the city. But now we’re free to roam, and we already bought our tickets home.

Grandpa died a sly and nonsensical man, but he was all we knew. He fed us, dressed us, housed us—even when he or we didn’t want it. “Nevertheless…” “Nevertheless…” That was his phrase. But now we’re free to stage our case, and in his legacy relay and forgive what he last said:

Hear me—

MOTH A

Buried in light, I was losing my breath. I had with me a frozen bottle of water. Two pillboxes, a bag, a phone, and nothing more. Sitting on the other end of this bench, I felt, on my face, the wind, the cold, and nothing more.

My head was weighing heavier, so I had to set my bag aside and lean on the backrest. My neck bent over backwards—I felt a breeze scrape against my throat. My eyes looked straight up, and I saw an empty winter sky. No stars, no moon—a dark pond of squirming blues fenced in by the spikes of a grey concrete jungle—my city, my Seoul.

The streets around me beamed a dizzy red and yellow. I had to clench my eyes tight to keep those lights outside. Oh, and a single raindrop tapped the middle of my forehead. I cannot remember any of these facts as being otherwise. Surrounded by these truths, I was thinking about why I’d run away.

I cared too much and cared too little; that’s why. I bore this pain and lowered these shutters.

But left in the gutters, I felt only frailer. For your rules and your fools, I stripped myself in layers.

Now I’m left bare, gasping for air. Prayers unanswered, favors unthanked.

Mutter this and mutter that—so on and so forth…

Enter a man, or a boy. He seemed somewhat my age, but taller. His hair was dark and long; his arms swung through the air like the sticks on those old metronomes. He was drunk, so I rolled my eyes back upwards and waited until he passed by.

He didn’t pass by. He sat on this end of the bench and leaned on the backrest the same way I did. You’re ruining my monologue, I thought.

Somehow, he heard it. His face creaked towards my general direction, and he whispered,

“You must be thinking I ruined your moment.”

Yes, but I wasn’t going to admit it.

“Are you drunk?” I replied instead.

“Do I look drunk?”

“Yeah. And you smell drunk as well.”

“Well so do you.”

“But I’m not—”

“Drunk?”

“No.”

“Is that what you believe?”

“What I believe in?”

“Belief in general.”

“I don’t believe I’m drunk.”

“Then I don’t have to explain.”

I was about to reply with something that makes more sense, but I stopped. I knew this pattern. I knew this scheme. I was being swept into his pace, this strange creature. If I were to talk to him any longer, next thing I know, I’d be having a whole conversation with him. Even worse, one that’s under his terms and his terms only. He spoke a recognizable language. I didn’t want to speak it anymore. That’s why I ran away.

So I ran away. I picked up my bag and broke into a sprint. I was scared. The delayed realization that I was talking to this complete stranger, alone, pushed me into a painful pang of panic. Then I felt my legs give up. My high sprint deformed into a low crawl.

The lights blurred into soggy yellow stains, then rushed into my lungs. I had to keep myself sane, so I carved my senses out with the jarring breeze. Wheeze after wheeze, I sunk into the cement below. Leap after leap, I breached my city alone.

I slid into a nearby playground, needing to catch my breath. I crawled up its biggest slide and sat down on its highest platform. The lights were dimmer here; in their place, I heard the noises of children: their laughter, their cries, their feet crunching the gravel below…

The chill of iron pierced my skull as I set it down on the platform, and my back stiffened as I curled into a cocoon. I kept my eyes open as they circled my knees. As they shrunk into twigs, I whispered to them a rasp apology. There was no one else but us.

Nothing more than a slab of steaming meat—I found myself pleading to breathe. As my vision thinned into a tame grey, I found myself lost in a field of snow.

I looked around, then saw behind me an endless line of “me”s. In single-file fashion, they shivered in each their own frequencies, and all their pitch-black eyes and dark brown beaks pointed towards one, precise location: me.

So, I decided to wander around for a bit. They followed me around like a tail.

White, then grey, then another shade of white. The monotonous plane robbed me of any sense of direction. Above it hovered a black fog. Wading through it, I took in deeper and deeper breaths.

I assumed a whole day had passed by the time I saw a faint, red bulge in the distance. Immediately, a swarm of lukewarm blood rushed into my veins, kicking my walk into a light gallop.

A burning igloo, about the size of a two-story building, emerged from the horizon in front of me. Waves of heat whooshed through my body as I approached. I raised my arms sideways as if to embrace it.

My fingertips grew numb as the fire grew louder. My wings began to singe, and my feelers flared ember-orange. The igloo’s roaring breath encroached me as I nudged myself into its flames. Hotter, then hotter, I sunk into its grace. I closed my eyes again. I felt my mind disintegrate.

But a sudden whirlwind swept me backwards, and the world became a darker grey. I opened my eyes to see a familiar monotone. Black fog rushed back into my eyes and lungs.

MOTH B

Enter a man, or a boy. His feet were lodged above my head, and his eyes were looking down on me. I couldn’t see through the shadow cast on his face. I couldn’t tell if he was smiling, or frowning.

“What are you doing, lying on the ground?” He asked.

I didn’t answer him. Instead, I gasped in pain, feeling a sharp migraine. I felt the gravel of the playground press into my spine, but I couldn’t get up. I thought about getting up, about moving my limbs this way and that way, but they didn’t budge.

This all felt like a dream, the one you don’t want to write down in your diary, the one you hold your breath in just to see if that’ll wake you up. But I didn’t wake up. In fact, I didn’t feel myself breathe at all. All I could do was to stare back at the silhouette in front of me with all my newborn contempt—and refuse to talk back.

“I know you’re not drunk. You’re not that type.”

I felt my left eye twitch.

“Get up.”

…

“Get up. It’s already too late.”

I wedged my head deeper into the ground.

He let out a quiet sigh, and, surveying his surroundings, landed his eyes on the platform I (I think) used to be lying on. He walked over there, crawled halfway up the slide, and reached for my bag. As he carried it back to me, he opened it and looked inside—again, looming over me.

“How many did you take?”

…

He took out and held both of my pillboxes in one hand, then shook them.

“I don’t even know anymore.” He murmured.

Then, he sat down next to me, crunching the gravel and letting out a low groan. I took my eyes off him and turned them towards the sky. For a while, we stayed that way: me looking upward, him forward. The sky was still dark; the playground, empty.

We began to hear birds chirp around us. I know he heard them too, because he mentioned them somewhere in the middle of his speech.

“The sun’s coming up.”

…

“It always does, doesn’t it?”

…

“It doesn’t care. It doesn’t care what happens down here, ya know? It always does what it always does. Up and down. Down and under.”

I decided not to dwell on whatever he says anymore.

“They’re not coping so well. They never did.”

…

“I know you’re not believing any of the things I’m saying, I know. I’ve been there, and I know. Believe me, you don’t have to explain anything. I know.”

…

“Come back.”

No.

He told me that he was getting frustrated. After what seems like the end of his patience, he broke. He stood straight up and began yelling—I didn’t listen to a single thing he yelled. I didn’t like it, and I didn’t have to. I already knew the words to that song. I heard it too many times. That’s what made me run away.

So I ran away. As soon as his arms rushed in to get a hold of me, I broke into another sprint. As soon as I did, I heard his voice drop silent. Now the noise of my footsteps alone breached the city’s silence. I ran towards the streets, through their yellow lights and through the glares of a newborn sun.

By the time I could catch my breath again, I found myself caught in the middle of a moving crowd. My legs were too exhausted to fight against it, and my mind was too faint to find a way through it, so I followed their steps and mimicked their walk. Their feet were light and quiet, as if they were sneaking past a sleeping child. Everyone had something in their hands: books, bags, bottles, the hands of others.

After a while, I saw the people in front of me go through a set of glass doors. I soon made sense of what that establishment was, and I pulled myself out of the crowd. From outside, I saw the procession continue. The line seemed to extend backwards indefinitely, only for its front to be absorbed through these doors into this single point in space.

A two-story building. I knew this one. I made my way around to its other side and leaned against its concrete wall.

Enter a man, or a boy. He seemed somewhat my age, but taller. He tiptoed towards me and leaned forward.

“Brother,” He said.

“Pastor,” I replied.

“Ended up here again.”

“It’s a place where people do that.”

“Nice weather, isn’t it?”

“It’s getting a bit cloudy.”

“It’s nice weather. I like it better that way.”

“Well I don’t.”

He took out a red pack of cigarettes from his back pocket gave its head a few light pats.

“Not that type, right?”

He picked out and lit up a cigarette.

“I don’t think so.”

As he sucked on the white stick, his eyes drooped towards the ground. I watched its grey fumes dissipated into a greyer sky as I waited for him to finish it.

“How’s he treating you now?”

“Pastor,”

“Brother,”

“I’m being chased by a man, or a boy. Someone bad and someone scary.”

He kept his eyes glued to the ground.

“I believe you.”

“Pastor, I really am—”

“Brother.”

…

“I believe you.”

…

“You don’t have to explain yourself.”

I kept my mouth shut as he lit up a second cigarette. I saw a couple drops of rain fall on the back of his head.

“Service’s starting soon.”

“I saw the people.”

“Wanna come back?”

“I don’t know, Pastor, I—”

“Brother.”

He breathed out a jagged bulk of smoke.

“Brother, neither do I.”

…

“But I believe.”

…

“Maybe I’ll buy you a meal too, next time.”

“What kind of meal?”

“The meat kind.” He said, as he gave me a light pat on the back and headed back inside.

I strolled around the building for a bit. The sky was again a uniform grey, and the high spikes of the city were buried in a thick fog. The noise of cars began to grow clearer and clearer, until they became another confused mess.

I decided to walk away—to put it kindly, but as soon as I saw the streets divide, I tripped and fell. I heard a voice, so I looked around. I saw the line. I heard the noise. Rain began to pour. I saw them walk through the deluge. I stood up and turned my back on them. I heard them laugh—the kind of laughter that made me run.

So I ran.

I ran towards the yellow in the grey.