The Moths

The moths appeared slowly and then all at once.

I was deeply charmed to see them fluttering around the apartment – my first apartment – where oddities were seen as welcome reminders that I am young and life is interesting. There are eight doors in this small apartment, each with their own key that sticks out of the key hole unused. The kitchen door is the only one ever locked, because it only stays shut if there is a particular type of draft to keep it shut. When a keyless attempt is made to close it, usually an invisible force (air? God?) pushes it right back open, as if a stubborn child is on the other end. I like to sing when I cook. My neighbor doesn’t like it so much.

Kitchen door is locked. I am very young. My life is very interesting.

The moths were small, variants of speckled gray and triangular. But when they flew, they softened into little animated balls of dust. Colloquially, they were simply “the apartment moths”, a reference to their spawning ground. The chill of Winter kept the windows closed, they were nowhere to be seen in the rest of the building and yet they appeared in my apartment. They fluttered around with no real destination, hovering in the air for a minute or so before perching on some wall and then fluttering again. I liked to watch them during my idle moments – waiting for the water to boil for my instant coffee, sitting on the couch after work. Maybe I’m like a god to them is what I eventually came to think. This was a logic driven conclusion, I told myself, not an egotistical one. Their world was my apartment. The kitchen, their favorite territory, the living room, their exotic getaway, my bedroom, a daring place that only a couple ever wandered into before promptly leaving. What legends did they pass? I was a gargantuan being that slept in the secret room and stomped around, watching them curiously. This, me and my apartment, was all they ever knew.

As religion often goes, some of the moths escalated to a realm of nasty devotion and sacrifice. One moth was found floating in my morning coffee, another caught in the tight netting of my loofa, its wings split between threads of blue plastic. This brought forth an intense feeling of tenderness for these small things. If only you knew that I am simply not worth it nor am I anything special I would think. But alas, they were only moths. They did not understand. I continued watching them as their numbers steadily grew, their presence so pinnacle to my apartment that a feeling of unease would settle over me if there wasn’t some blurry fluttering in the corner of my eye.

A strange webbing began to appear in my food, like little spiders had made little strands and then left them to dry up and hang in little weeping strings. It was impressive, all the places these webs appeared. In spice jars, sealed bags of granola, on the inside of the peanut butter lids. No crevice was safe.

Weevil moths is what google said. Alternative name: pantry moths. Moths whose eggs are carried into homes from the grocery store and multiply by eating and breeding in food typically found in the pantry. The energy in the apartment shifted: betrayal, stupidity, sadness; now with many moths and a distressed god. This is never a good thing.

When humanity became too evil for God to bear, he brought a flood. This flood was swift, impersonal, a grand ending for a grand beginning. I was not so lucky. I had to use my own hands. It was a frightening stumble into murderous tendencies. I stalked them and grabbed them and threw them in the trash. And I was good at it, being the apex predator for these poor moths. Eventually there were no more flutters in the corner of my eye. I felt uneasy.

The moths left slowly and then all at once.