Echo of Moths

three | eldritch

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three
eldritch | strange or unnatural; inspiring fear
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I REMEMBER MY SCARS. Every last one that trails my skin, I can run her fingers over by memory—and every touch surfaces recollections of the tools that inflicted them.

The clean swipe across my thigh was from a well-sharpened dagger. A curved pucker on my ribcage from a farmer's sickle before I was thrown into wet, piled leaves. Thick, angry splotches across my stomach after being held over a fading bonfire.

And the gnarled tree carved crudely along my back, its trunk trailing my entire spine—a gift from shadowed talons and a voice both hoarse and slithery.

I rip my fingers from the wound with a gasp. The burn rolls down my spine, all venom and malevolent fire. Foggy memories simmer until they reach a raging boil that floods my veins. I almost died that day.

Maybe I should have.

Ever since removing that awful dress, once pristine yet turned to bloody, mud-streaked shreds, the scars are impossible to ignore. Showering in the ivy-wallpapered bathroom across the hall has proven to be hell. A past laced with blur and shadow has become something far more real.

When I peel back the curtain, I wrap an off-white towel around myself and throw a second over the steam-covered mirror. I can't dress fast enough.

"You can pick out whatever you'd like," Locke had said as he pulled a tote from the built-in wardrobe inside my room. "And take your time cleaning up. There's a full bath across the hall. When you're ready, Mom will have a hot meal waiting."

He'd kept his eyes on the floor, on his hands as they'd smoothed wrinkles in the bedspread... anything but the tote.

I wouldn't have asked questions if I could. I let him leave, ambling out of the room with a gate so reserved that I wonder what secrets he hides within his own skin. Wonder what it feels like to not have them displayed across his body for the world to see.

It must be freeing.

Clothing helps to mimic the sensation. The humid air cries for me to dress in appropriate clothing. There were plenty of shorts, tees, and tank-tops to choose from.

Instead, I absconded with well-worn jeans and a waffle sweater the shade of a coral sunset. It isn't perfect, and as I tug it on, the moisture from my scalding shower makes the thin material suffocating, but it will have to do. The thin scars visible along my collarbone and an old axe wound along the back of my hand are nothing compared to what hides beneath the fabric veil.

A soft, relieved breath passes my lips, and my stomach rumbles in unison. I can't remember the last time I had a hot meal.

Quick footsteps scamper down the hall.

"Caila!" Teagan's voice travels closer with every jaunt, so sunny and playful. "Caila!"

I open my mouth to ask if his grandmother's food is ready. The searing blades strip me of my voice once again.

When Teagan's steps come to a halt outside the door, I throw my discarded towel over a hooked rack and snag the one covering the sink mirror—but no steam remains over its glass surface.

In the fog's place is a face much like mine.

The faux-Caila stares back with empty sockets. Vines entwine with my knotted brown hair, threading down to my waist and enrapturing my body. They creep along my forehead in a thorned vice. Crimson and ichor trail from the puncture wounds, filling the empty sockets with pooling fluid.