Page 18 of The Blood we Crave

I reach the top of his arm, exposing his shoulder when I hear the rattle in his lungs. My movements pause as I meet his eyes, hovering over his face, making sure my face is the last thing he sees before he parts.

Like cold, swift night, death comes for him. The life drains from his eyes right in front of me, a little switch clicked off inside of him.

Just like that, my count goes from six to seven.

Ecstasy flows through my veins, a blissful Concertoof emotion wafting over me. I had taken my father’s child-play nonsense and created something untouchable.

I had become an orchestrator of fear. A conductor of pain. I compose death.

Contrary to what people believe, the apple did fall very far from the wicked tree.

Because I never wanted to be my father. I never wanted to be like him.

I wanted to be better.

And I am.

an unhealthy obsession

THREE

lyra

Everyone knows that flames lure moths.

Bright luminescent light bulbs on your porch or tall yellowish streetlamps on the highway. Hundreds of winged creatures will gather around gentle rays that emerge in the night.

The nocturnal insects have accumulated lore around them. They operate by transverse orientation, keeping a constant light source at a certain place in relation to their body in order to guide them on their journey. That light is normally the glimmer of the moon; the moon is their north star. Their compass.

However, a more sinister situation is that moths are hypnotized by lights, following the glow to their death. Like a melancholy version of Romeo and Juliet, the heart of a lamp and a moth is a fatal attraction. But no one talks about that.

Couples get compared to moths and flames all the time. Drawn to one another, magnetic. I bet if they knew the real reason, it wouldn’t be as sweet. Not to normal people. Creatures who become entranced by bright lights get eaten by predators or overheat. They are not drawn by love or some deep-rooted appeal; they are pulled in by death.

Even though the moth consciously knows getting that close to the bright glow of light will kill them, they go anyway. They can’t help themselves. They are addicted.

I think it makes it that much more romantic. They would risk dying just to get close. Just to bask in the light for a few seconds, even though their death waits just around the corner.

On the brighter side of factual information about moths, something many don’t know about lepidoptera is that some species can’t resist sweets.

They are suckers for fermented confectionaries. When I need to collect a few more specimens for an upcoming project, I will head outside with a jar of bananas mixed with molasses and stale beer. Then I’ll pour some on a few different tree trunks and wait.

The number of winged beauties that come out for a taste is mesmerizing.

Maybe that’s why moths are my favorite insect, why I appreciate them so much. We have two very important things in common.

Our love for sweets and our obsession with things that want us dead.

We have these addictive hearts.

That’s what my mother used to call it.

When I love something, I love it with my entire being. The beating organ in my chest becomes this fiend for the things it likes. The things it needs. I don’t give mild, gentle emotions as others do.

My heart is a powerful thing, Mom once told me just before bed. Strong and with so much love that it could drown cities and empires. It does not know how to do anything other than bleed for the things I find joy in.

She finished by telling me that it was a dangerous thing to live with but also a gift. One that I should be wary of who receives it because few people will know what to do with a heart like mine.

I, of course, did not understand what could possibly be dangerous about caring the way I did.

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