Echo of Moths

five | demure

_______________________________
five
demure | reserved; modest
_______________________________

IF RELAXATION IS FLEETING, sleep has gone into hiding. The weather radio lost control from the twister, Eileen assured us. A semi-plausible excuse. Normal minds wouldn't assume the worst, such as entities that wait for stormy nights to make their move—like looking for a lost corpse. Wailerun residents are raised by the strange and supernatural, but even the most stubborn succumb to more "rational" reasoning from time to time.

And with a storm's devastation, it's easier for others to blame it for anything that goes awry.

After a night of little sleep, exhaustion's plague nearly convinces me as well. Bitter coffee grounds my brain in reality. It slides down my throat smoothly, though its sharp taste reminds me of the dirt I spent so long surrounded by. Perhaps it's a reminder of her true home.

If so, I'm not sure I want to return home.

The sun is warm. The grass is vibrant and soft. Even the morning wind carries the smell of lilac and dew. Wailerun's beauty has been unleashed in the storm's aftermath, and if one can look past the twisted-off trees and shingles littering the yard, it's truly a sight to behold.

I watch it all from the wraparound porch, snuggling into a sweater with long sleeves that drape my wrists and sipping my warm liquid dirt.

"Hawth! C'mon!" Teagan's voice echoes from inside the house, followed by the quick succession of pattering footsteps through the living room.

I hide a smile behind my ceramic mug—hand crafted by a family friend, Eileen assured me before the grief overwhelmed her eyes. The expression was enough to tell me that the family friend was perhaps someone with more meaning. I flash back to Stephanie, a name uttered softly as if they don't want the air to recall it on whispering winds. But the breeze will bleed their secrets into the forest until it flutters away like a moth from its cocoon.

Air rushes past my side. Teagan and Hawthorn burst through the screen door in a game of chase, where the large dog's strides are subdued, as if he is intentionally letting the young boy win.

"Teag!" Eileen hollers as the small boy races around her, nearly knocking the rake from her hand. "Watch where you're running! There's too much debris to be messing around!"

The boy only nods and laughs as if acknowledging her yet proving he didn't hear a word from her lips. He doesn't seem to have any issue avoiding the debris; it's a game for him, dodging shingles and leaping over large clusters of branches. Though he lacks sleep like the rest of us, it doesn't slow his stride.

"God, wish I had that much energy after a night in the cellar."

I startle at Locke's voice. He leans against the doorframe, looking out the screen panel with a chuckle. Steam curls from a generic mug as he sips his coffee.

The hinges squeal in protest as he pushes open the screen door. Dark rings paint half-moons beneath his eyes. He rubs at the scruff on his face and lets out a yawn that stretches from his sock-clad toes. Hair already damp with sweat from a half morning of cleanup, he looks as if he's already been outside for days. After taking another swig from his mug, he slides his feet into the work boots left discarded beside my chair.

"Barely twenty-three, and this kid already runs circles around me." Locke sets his mug on the glass-topped patio table and plops into the chair across from me. He pulls his ankle atop his other knee to tie the first boot. "Don't have kids so young. Adds thirty years at least."

His smile crinkles the skin beside his eyes, so crisply green in the sunlight that they resemble the jade beads Eileen wears around her wrists.

I place my mug beside his and reach for the chalkboard in my lap. After a quick scribble, I hold it up.