>Short Stories<

>The Never-Ending Hole

TW: Suicidal Imagery, Murder (Not in detail)

Life halfway to death is the most beautiful thing in the world, at least to Moth. The forest slowly changes with the seasons, leaves slowly dying yet show more color than ever. He supposes it's like that with humans too. His mother used to work at a nursing home - a place for the dying to go away with the others. She'd come home and always talked about how the dying souls would confess all of their sins - bringing out their true colors. A confessional of sorts.

Moth entertained the thought of the dying leaves confessing their sins, but what sins would they be keeping hidden away in their texterous skins? Then Moth stopped his steps, closing his eyes with head tilted up, listening. To the wind that brush up past withered leaves, their screams of forgiveness dancing in the wind. The winds howl in screams and whispers, begging to be heard before they fall to the forest floor. Green eyes open slightly, tilting his head downwards to look down at the never-ending hole beneath him. He was standing over a fallen tree that made a bridge over the hole - the roots attached to the floor just enough to remain living.

The never-ending hole, that's what Moth had named it because it seemed to have no bottom. He stares for a long time before he sits himself down - almost losing balance and falling into the hole. Though only a junior, he childishly kicks his feet back and forth - swaying the music of the forest. It was nice, calm, quiet.

Delicate hands run through black hair as he tilts his chin up, imagining the scenario like he's always had.

He's left the note, the messages, the goodbyes to everyone, it's late at night and Selene watches him with sorrow from her beautiful chariot. He wears his finest clothes - hair cut and combed, and with him he carries the final note. With his most excellent words and writing, with his apologies if it's found, if he's found.

Moth sighs with contempt and he can only hope soon soon soon.

Soon seems not too far away.

An hour, two, three pass before Helios is waving goodbye to the people, and Moth is dreading. Dreading making the walk back home, dreading to see his father, dreading to allow himself to sleep.

But alas, we all have to do things that we don't want to.

Moth gets up and looks to the leaves one more time, making a silent promise to listen to what they have to say next time he comes. Dusting off his pants, Moth makes way for home.

Gravel makes his steps uneven, sharp, poking, rough, although he much prefers this than marbled floors that are easy to clean. Too easy.

The leftover rain on the grass shines with the new moon, little green stars that will die along with the trees - except they're more silent. They'll die with their confessions, they'll die colorless, they'll die cold. Moth's cold, the wind picking up much more now that the sun isn't casting heat. He crosses his arms as he slows his step, he's cold cold cold and yet he'd rather die here than in the warmth that is provided - alas his feet betray him and with every slow step he can feel the heat getting closer.

One two three, a little cabin in the country, the nearest house miles away. He doesn't open the door yet, just stares and stares. Maybe if he stares hard enough he could make the house disappear, or better yet - become Matilda and use his mind to throw the house miles away. He thinks, thinks, thinks;

He's got a headache now. He'll just have to become Matilda another day.

Pale lithe fingers reach out but someone beats him to it. A gruff voice sounds from behind him, a body pressed to his back, "Move boy." is all that's muttered before Moth is shoved out of the way so the man can make his way inside. He's wearing hunting gear, blood dripping from his gloved hands that hold a bloody bag. On his back sits a Mossberg 500 12 gauge, and Moth wishes he wasn't able to name the gun just by its case.