Martin Cardamon was going insane. His eyes, dry and pained, watched the clock tick down to the end of the work day, but he felt no relief. His coworkers could sense something was off. No doubt the shadows beneath his eyes were clear for everyone to see. His manner put them in mind of a dried twig on the brink of snapping.
Perhaps hoping to ease the tension wafting from him, Regina stopped by his desk. “Hey Martin, planning to work on your lilacs this weekend?”
“Huh?” It took an awful amount of effort to transition his attention from the clock at the corner of the computer screen to his coworker. “I don’t know. Maybe.”
Regina was a professional, which meant she was able to keep her smile in place while her instincts told her that a natural disaster was incoming. “Oh. Well, I hope you’re able to take some time for yourself.” Regina was a survivor, so she hurried away without waiting for a reply.
Martin went back to looking at his computer screen, even glummer than before. Not even the thought of spending some uninterrupted hours in his garden could cheer him up. He blinked, and his eyes reminisced on what moisture felt like. He couldn’t go on like this. He felt ready to crumple into himself.
It was all the fault of that damn moth.
Martin had never thought much about moths. They existed, like lint and Bulgaria. But recently, one had taken up residence in his bedroom. He wouldn’t normally have minded such a small roommate; he left the spiders to their own devices, unless they crawled into the shower while he was using it. The problem was that this moth wouldn’t leave Martin to his own devices. Every night, when Martin had turned off the lights and cocooned himself in the covers, the moth insisted on fluttering all over the bedroom. Its dusty wings dinged against the walls, the credenza, the lampshade on the nightstand inches from Martin’s head. It was like the moth thought it was a pinball, and Martin’s room was the machine it was meant to mash around and make noise in.
Every time the moth got started, Martin would try to ignore it. The noise would quiet for a few moments, and, just as Martin relaxed back towards sleep, the sounds would ramp back up. The only way to make it stop was to get out of bed, turn on the light, and chase the moth until it hid itself away. As someone who was very fond of his bed, this was the biggest slight he could imagine.
Martin had tried to remove the moth. Its flight seemed so slow and fumbling that it should have been easy, but it always just evaded his grasp. The past few nights, his patience had worn thin, and he’d taken smacks full-force at the intruder. All that had gotten him was a sore hand and a complaint from the neighbors telling him to stop hitting the walls at night. Didn’t he know people were trying to sleep?
All the way home, Martin thought about how to get rid of the moth, which the other drivers on the freeway didn’t appreciate. He considered swatters and zappers and chemical sprayers that shouldn’t be used indoors. He imagined donning a flamethrower and eliminating any cover the moth could take advantage of. Then he remembered that the “cover” in question was his stuff, and he reconsidered. By the time he got home, he’d devised and dismissed over a dozen different plans. Taking a peek into his bedroom, all was quiet. But of course, the moth considered the evening quiet hours. It was only after the sun went down that the party could get started.
Martin used the momentary ceasefire to prepare himself. Fanciful plans were all well and good, but he need real solutions. He went room by room, looking for something that could be of use. When he reached the kitchen, something glinted in the overhead lights, catching his eye. Martin smiled—it was perfect. That damn moth didn’t stand a chance.
For the first time in recent memory, Martin shut off the lights with a smile on his face. His ears were on high alert as the bedroom slid into dark silence. After a few minutes, it began.
It started in the vicinity of the bookshelves. The little fucker always liked hiding over there when Martin got too close to catching him. Even in a rage, he wasn’t willing to pull all of the books off the shelves to find the moth, because that would mean stirring up all the dust that had built up behind them, and Martin had terrible allergies, and besides it would be such a pain to have to reshelve all the books after. He could imagine the moth cackling, rubbing it little feet together, as Martin sneezed and dropped books everywhere.
Martin laid in wait beneath the covers, ears tracking the moth’s progress. It bumped around the books for a while before tapping on the glass cover of the overhead light. Not yet, Martin thought. It had to be the perfect moment. Finally, the moth fluttered to the far wall, by the window. The room grew quiet. Martin could see the moth in his mind’s eye, its inexplicably dusty (where did all the dust come from? behind the bookshelf?) body slipping between the blinds. Then—
BRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRTTT
It was the worst of all the moth’s many malefactions. Wedging itself inside the faux-wood blinds, then revving its wings like the motor of a racecar. Maybe they wouldn’t have gotten to this point if the moth had stuck to the shelves or the light fixture. Martin thought he may have even lived with it bopping around the lampshade, but the noise of the battered blinds was too much to ignore.
Stretching out a hand, Martin clicked on the lamp. He pulled himself from bed slowly, not wanting to scare off his prey. As he stood, his hand wrapped around his weapon of choice—an empty jam jar he’d forgotten to throw in the recycling.
He approached the vibrating blinds. The moth was hidden from sight, but Martin knew its moves. All his previous failed attempts hadn’t been a waste. They’d prepared Martin for this moment—the moment when he vanquished the evil that refused to let him rest in peace.
With one hand, Martin reached out and shook the blinds. The moth darted out, flying in strange patterns through the air. Martin’s eyes, sensing the promise of uninterrupted rest at the end of this long road, never lost sight of it. Eventually, the moth plopped down in a high corner of the wall. Not high enough, Martin thought, as he pulled out a stool and set it below the moth. Martin rose like a behemoth from the deep, arm outstretched, hand and jar fused into a perverse set of jaws. The moth held its ground, either unsuspecting or overconfident. That would be its downfall. Fast as lightning, he struck.
Tink. Tink-tink-tink.
The sound of the moth smacking against the glass sides of the jar was almost nonexistent. Martin nearly whooped in victory, but then he remembered the neighbors and their penchant for formal complaints. He slid the top of the jar into place with the utmost care. He didn’t leave an inch of space for the moth to escape. Head held high, Martin returned to the window. He pulled up the blinds and threw the window wide. Heart racing, he thrust the jar forward, sliding the top away. The moth went tumbling out, head over butt, or whatever moth’s had.
Wasting no time, Martin slammed the window shut. Seconds later, a little gray-brown shape landed on the glass. Martin gave it the bird. “Too bad buddy. Your nights of ruining my sleep are over.”
Martin straightened up and realized he’d just flipped off a moth. He really needed a good night’s sleep. Flicking off the lamp, he curled himself into his covers and let the darkness take him.
Jerry Miller stared through the thick glass of the window. The man had forgotten to close the blinds before returning to bed. He could just make out the man’s shape in the dark room.
“Hey Jerry, how’s it going?” A second moth landed on the window. “Haven’t seen you in a while.”
Jerry twitched his antennae in greeting. “I’ve been watching over this guy. Saw one of those shadow creeper things slip into his bedroom a while ago. It’s been lurking under his bed. I wanted to warn him—he takes such nice care of the lilacs, after all, and it seemed like the polite thing to do—but I wasn’t sure how.”
“Did you try moth code?”
“Yes, Brad. I tried moth code. He didn’t seem to understand. So I just kept flying around until he’d turn on a light. That kept the creeper under the bed at least. But now I’m stuck outside, and the man turned the light’s off.”
“Well, he’s doomed.”
“Yeah, it’s a real shame.”
Jerry and Brad sat on the window, watching as the covers of the bed were consumed by a shadow darker than the rest of the room. It pulled itself up, not unlike how the man had pulled himself up the wall to catch Jerry. The man, perhaps sensing some change in the light, rolled onto his back. He screamed as he took in the mass above him.
“That’ll wake the neighbors,” Brad said.
“Oh definitely,” agreed Jerry. “They’re very light sleepers.”
The screaming cut off abruptly as the creeper descended on the man. The two moths watched, intermittently wiping their antennae. Jerry was embarrassed at all the dust he’d collected while staying behind the bookshelf, but Brad was good enough not to comment on it. As the creeper finished erasing all traces of its meal, Brad spoke up. “There’s a new porch light at the end of the block. Brightest one I’ve ever seen. Would you like to check it out?”
“Oh that sounds wonderful. I’ve missed porch lights.”