TRIGGER WARNING: Mentions of suicidal ideation and self-harm.
The Moon Speaks to Me
By
Ransom Wall
The Moon speaks to me. Every night it tortures me with its satanic mutterings, every night it slithers its depraved tongue into my ear and rapes my mind with its thoughts. It shows me things, things that have driven my mind to madness. And it laughs. Oh, how it laughs.
For twenty-eight days it has wished death upon me, and I know that on the beginning of the twenty-ninth night when the Moon is full, it will get its wish. The Moon shall strike upon me a killing blow.
I have not slept, not once. Not since it first laid its anger upon me. How this is possible I do not know, but it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters. Soon, I shall rest.
The twenty-ninth night has come. It is Midnight. I step outside and into the light of the full Moon. I look out upon the snow covering the ground, a foot deep in some places. My body aches from the cold. Then the Moon gives me its command. I obey.
I strip off my clothing, allowing the excruciating cold to sink its teeth in my flesh, biting my bare skin. I discard my clothes and abandon them in the snow. Then I begin to walk. My naked feet sink into the snow. I begin to lose feeling in my toes, then soon the entirety of my feet go numb. So numb that while treading through the snow I step on a piece of broken glass that slices deep into my heel and I only notice it later because of the trail of crimson my blood is leaving in the snow. I keep walking towards the river. Towards rest.
I walk for nearly an hour before I am able to hear the stream trickling faintly ahead in the distance. By now the flow of blood from the wound in my foot has dried and I am no longer leaving a crimson trail in the snow.
I arrive at the river. I look upon the water, the demonic light of the Moon shining on its surface. Soon it will be frozen over, but for now it is still fit for my needs. I spot a single tree standing tall and alone about thirty feet away from the river.
I sit down by it, my numb and naked buttocks not even feeling the caress of the frost-coated grass. I inspect my foot. The glass is still there. I attempt to remove it but I only result in slicing open my fingers. I can’t feel the pain. I try again. And again.
Soon my hands are covered in blood. I wipe them off on my bare chest and I grip the glass once more. I pull. The glass cuts into my fingers right down to the bone but I squeeze harder. The glass cuts into the bone. I pull harder. Finally it comes out and at that moment all feeling returns back to me. My feet, my hands, their digits, I can feel everything. Tears run down my cheeks but they freeze before they can reach my chin. I stand up and face the tree. I use the glass to cut these words into the bark:
THE RIVER OF REST
I leave the tree and walk towards the river. As I step in, the warm blood flowing from my wounds drips into the river, steam comes off the hot viscous red liquid as it touches the cold water.
I close my fist tightly around the glass and I swim out to the middle of the river. The water. It’s cold. So cold. I look up at the Moon. It smiles at me. Go on, it says.
I take the piece of glass and cut my wrists with it. The moon’s laughter turns hysterical. I recline onto my back in the water. I let myself go, and the stream carries me. Darkness starts to creep into the edges of my vision. I look up at the Moon in the night sky as I float down the river, the full Moon’s light shining on my face as I bleed out into the water.
Its laughter has ceased and it has stopped speaking. I wonder if it had ever laughed, if it had ever spoken in the first place. I decide yes. I know it spoke to me. I can feel it, just as much as I can feel the life leaving my body.
I close my eyes.
Ransom Wall is a young writer who had his first short story published at the age of 15. Since then he has had multiple publications in numerous magazines and anthologies in paperback, hardcover, and digital format.
The Moon Speaks to Me
By
Ransom Wall
The Moon speaks to me. Every night it tortures me with its satanic mutterings, every night it slithers its depraved tongue into my ear and rapes my mind with its thoughts. It shows me things, things that have driven my mind to madness. And it laughs. Oh, how it laughs.
For twenty-eight days it has wished death upon me, and I know that on the beginning of the twenty-ninth night when the Moon is full, it will get its wish. The Moon shall strike upon me a killing blow.
I have not slept, not once. Not since it first laid its anger upon me. How this is possible I do not know, but it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters. Soon, I shall rest.
The twenty-ninth night has come. It is Midnight. I step outside and into the light of the full Moon. I look out upon the snow covering the ground, a foot deep in some places. My body aches from the cold. Then the Moon gives me its command. I obey.
I strip off my clothing, allowing the excruciating cold to sink its teeth in my flesh, biting my bare skin. I discard my clothes and abandon them in the snow. Then I begin to walk. My naked feet sink into the snow. I begin to lose feeling in my toes, then soon the entirety of my feet go numb. So numb that while treading through the snow I step on a piece of broken glass that slices deep into my heel and I only notice it later because of the trail of crimson my blood is leaving in the snow. I keep walking towards the river. Towards rest.
I walk for nearly an hour before I am able to hear the stream trickling faintly ahead in the distance. By now the flow of blood from the wound in my foot has dried and I am no longer leaving a crimson trail in the snow.
I arrive at the river. I look upon the water, the demonic light of the Moon shining on its surface. Soon it will be frozen over, but for now it is still fit for my needs. I spot a single tree standing tall and alone about thirty feet away from the river.
I sit down by it, my numb and naked buttocks not even feeling the caress of the frost-coated grass. I inspect my foot. The glass is still there. I attempt to remove it but I only result in slicing open my fingers. I can’t feel the pain. I try again. And again.
Soon my hands are covered in blood. I wipe them off on my bare chest and I grip the glass once more. I pull. The glass cuts into my fingers right down to the bone but I squeeze harder. The glass cuts into the bone. I pull harder. Finally it comes out and at that moment all feeling returns back to me. My feet, my hands, their digits, I can feel everything. Tears run down my cheeks but they freeze before they can reach my chin. I stand up and face the tree. I use the glass to cut these words into the bark:
THE RIVER OF REST
I leave the tree and walk towards the river. As I step in, the warm blood flowing from my wounds drips into the river, steam comes off the hot viscous red liquid as it touches the cold water.
I close my fist tightly around the glass and I swim out to the middle of the river. The water. It’s cold. So cold. I look up at the Moon. It smiles at me. Go on, it says.
I take the piece of glass and cut my wrists with it. The moon’s laughter turns hysterical. I recline onto my back in the water. I let myself go, and the stream carries me. Darkness starts to creep into the edges of my vision. I look up at the Moon in the night sky as I float down the river, the full Moon’s light shining on my face as I bleed out into the water.
Its laughter has ceased and it has stopped speaking. I wonder if it had ever laughed, if it had ever spoken in the first place. I decide yes. I know it spoke to me. I can feel it, just as much as I can feel the life leaving my body.
I close my eyes.
Ransom Wall is a young writer who had his first short story published at the age of 15. Since then he has had multiple publications in numerous magazines and anthologies in paperback, hardcover, and digital format.