Moth (Sample Only)

Chapter 1

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Chapter 1

We're lied to as children. Monsters aren't found in the closet or under the bed, and nothing portrayed in horror movies could ever do them justice. The awful truth became obvious to me at an early age. Real monsters lurk inside of everyone—from a kind elderly grandparent down to the very people who tuck you in at bedtime.

We all have demons inside, waiting to emerge when least expected. The only effective weapon against them is denial. Close your eyes, count to ten, and endure the worst of the assault. Suppress the pain, the anger—the fear.

You breathe.

Eventually, the horror fades, and you convince yourself it was all just a dream.

Until the lies stop working. The nightmare becomes a reality, corrupting every aspect of your life.

Your mind.

Your body.

Your soul.

Until the person you see in the mirror becomes the scariest monster of all. In vain, you try running away.

But you never can.

There is only one choice left—live that pretty, fragile lie and craft the walls of your own ignorant little cage around you.

Like a moth dancing on the edges of a flame.

* * *

Music spills from the club's brick façade, providing a fitting soundtrack for this busy city street. My nerves aside, I can't deny that the place has its own unique brand of ambiance. Loud, pulsing notes form the bulk, grating against my eardrums. It's not my preference, per se—more along the lines of the punky sort of stuff that Mara listens to. Vulgar on the surface, but when the chorus hits, the guitar riffs give way to surprisingly deep lyrics.

It's the juxtaposition, she explains whenever I raise my eyebrow at the noise seeping from her headphones during our bus rides to campus. You should study it more, Hannah. A few curse words might spice up your writing enough that you'll make the international news next time.

My cheeks heat at the prospect as I lean against a grungy brick wall paces away from the actual line snaking inside. I'm out of sight here, and there's no one to stare as my hand falls to the knitted bag hanging from my shoulder. I curl my fingers into a fist just to keep from reaching inside for it—it being a crumpled article from four weeks ago. Sure, the article itself had been buried within one of the most well-read local imprints from my small town, but it featured a short story, written by none other than Hannah Dewitt. Or, in this case, Hannah Matthews. Not that using my mother's maiden name helped obscure my identity any. Everyone from my parents to those in my hometown knew instantly who wrote it.

The narrative conveyed in the few short paragraphs transcends any pseudo-identity I might hide behind. A spine-chilling horror or as my creative writing professor deemed it—a story of betrayal and violence.

And death.

Mara had snorted the first time I showed her the article. "You really carry that around with you?" she'd asked, but her voice had touched on that awed, reverent tone artists reserve for those weird universal quirks we all understand. She just got it.

That feeling.

That pride.

That fear.

After three months of being her unofficial best friend, I'm convinced she loves testing our mutual fears more than any other bonding activity. Our fear of rejection. Isolation. Of the unknown.