MOONWATCH

Kaesea

TW: anxiety, panic, nightmares

Present Day

It's sad to say, but there's a lot of darkness in the world.

Think about it—every light has a shadow, and that shadow is alive. Behind the furniture, under a tree, cast across the sidewalk. In the simplest terms, we're constantly surrounded by a web of shifting, malevolent evil . . . but most people never know that this shape, the formless image, has the effect it holds.

Darkness is both the cause and effect of human sadness. It's a never ending cycle, like water being rained down, then evaporating and being taken up into the sky. And from this darkness—or, should I say, of this darkness—lunalisks are born.

They are hunters, parasite entities born of strife and the harbingers of evil. They are evil—beautiful, elusive, transfixing, cold, living darkness . . .

And they're here, in our world. Causing accidents, conflicts, mental torment. Sure, the experts can chalk it all up to politics or mistakes or sickness, but they're all just a shot in the dark. The thick, menacing, captivating, overwhelming dark.

Since no one truly knows what they face, why they shiver in fear when there's no monster beneath their bed, they can't do anything about it. You cannot fight what you cannot face.

And that's where I come in.

🌑

I open my eyes, gasping for breath. My head spins and my hands have gone fully numb up to my wrists. It's a moment before I can move, before I can shake myself from the shock and the vanishing panic.

When I find the strength, I snatch my earbuds from my bedside table and shove them into my ears, frantically tapping my phone. After a few tries, it responds, and soft, soothing music plays through the speakers. Even though my heart still races, I let myself breathe. In just a few moments, the fear has disappeared.

Standing up, I pull off the earbuds and shake my head. The memories usually didn't bother me during the day; I'd learned how to block out my thoughts, but that didn't remove them, not at night.

Just another nightmare. Calm down.

A glance at my clock shows 5:56, but I might as well get up now since my alarm will go off in four minutes and I wouldn't be able to go back to sleep anyways. I shake my head again, my shoulder-length hair slipping across my face. You're okay. You're never going to let that happen again.

I roll my shoulders, releasing the tension. The numbness has faded from my fingers, ending in a fuzzy, tingling sensation. I watch them, and the tips begin to glow, turning from soft yellow to white-hot.

Sighing, I got dressed, pulling on gray ripped jeans and a black long sleeve sweater. As always, I pull my pendant from beneath my top and lay it across my chest. Then I pack my backpack, lace up my Doc Martens, and snatch my fingerless gloves from my dresser.

As I'm doing so, I catch my reflection in the mirror and grimace. My body is tall, awkward, but that isn't what makes me frown. It's my face—everything, from the curve of my nose and cheekbones, the tone of my skin, the gloss in my hair, even the dusting of freckles—it's him.

I swallow. It's been six years. I see my reflection every day. Stupid stupid stupid.

And before I can stop myself or linger any more, I stomp out of my room.