LIKE MOTHS TO FLAME
CHAPTER I: FILM BURN
"Like moths to flame I come too close and all my oaths are burned."
I'm not crazy. At least I don't think I am. I guess that's not really helping my case since most people who are crazy don't think they are. So, I guess I might be crazy. It probably doesn't help that I've been admitted into Nimbasa City's Crisis Center for Juveniles by force.
Seriously, some people really need to butt out of other people's business. I won't go naming any names, but I'm pretty sure he is the reason I'm in here.
"Quintus, I know you're tuning me out again."
Oh yeah, this guy. My psychiatrist. Or was it psychologist? I can never tell the difference between the two. To me I guess he's just a glorified guidance counselor.
"Quintus, you've been here for a week," the man says in a condescending tone. I guess he's fed up with me not answering basic questions or in general, not paying much attention to anything. "You've been highly uncooperative through your entire time here."
I glance over at him and give him a devious smile. I knew he would get fed up with my attitude eventually. I just didn't think he would crack so quickly.
He's an older man, probably late 50's. His gray hair is neatly combed to the left. His beard is in tip top shape too. He wears a pair of black framed glasses over his green eyes. Every time I see him he's wearing his usual white doctor's coat along with a white dress shirt and pair black slacks to go along with it.
"You need to talk about what happened," he says, pinching the bridge of his nose.
I roll my eyes at him and turn my attention back to the books on his shelves.
"Quintus, look," he says, sitting up straight. "The sooner you talk, the sooner you can get out of here. My son admitted you here at not only the behest of the young boy in his care, but at the behest of your parents. They say that your personality has done a complete 360. They are really quite worried about your mental health after-"
No.
I can't think about it.
I just can't.
It…
No.
"Maybe they should be worried about my physical health instead," I cut him off, holding up my left arm that is currently in a cast because it's broken. In general, my body is a wreck. I've got a few wounds to my right arm. My eye is black and blue.
My stomach grumbles loudly.
I haven't eaten much lately. The food here is absolutely terrible. Even eating oatmeal bars and stale trail mix is better than soggy eggs or Salisbury steak that isn't cooked all the way through.
For the past week I've been living off toast and grepa jam that I have to put on with a spoon because they won't give kids with "mental health issues" plastic knives.
And my stomach grumbles again.
At the sound of my stomach grumbling, he sits up a bit. "The nurses tell me that you haven't been eating your food."
"Okay, seriously? Have you tried the food here? I would rather eat the ration bars that I had to survive off of when I got lost in Mt. Mortar for two weeks. Even those have more flavor in them," I hiss.
At this, my doctor starts rubbing his chin. He seems to be thinking hard about whatever it is.
A devious grin tugs at his lips.
Wait. What?
He leans forward with his arms folded in his lap.
"I normally do not barter with my patients, but you- you are completely stubborn, just like he said you would be. Now I know you don't want to talk about what happened, but let me make a deal with you. If I give you some food you actually like during each of our sessions, will you agree to at least share some of the details? You get your food and eventually get out of here and I just do my job- listening. When you think about it, you get more out of it than I do."
My stomach grumbles even louder.
I would kill for some pancakes. Pancakes with oran berry syrup and little bit of whip cream.
My stomach feels like it's going to eat itself if I don't get some actual food in me.
Dammit.
It seems my stomach has made my decision for me.
Damn him. Damn him for using my hunger against me.
"Fine," I say, sitting up. "In exchange for non-shitty food, I'll talk. But! I will talk about things at my own pace. None of that "how did that make you feel" shit either. You can take notes or whatever you do. If there's time before the session ends, you can ask me two- no. Scratch that. One question."
He scratches his chin. Thinking his options over. I mean, I think it's a pretty good deal. I probably wouldn't even be talking to him this much if I wasn't so damn hungry.
"You have yourself a deal."
"Pleasure doing business with you."
I glance over at the clock. Four pm. Looks like it's time to go back to my room.
I get to my feet.
"I want pancakes. Buttermilk pancakes and oran berry syrup," I say, before I start groaning at how much pain my body is in.
He merely nods in response.
He's probably regretting it right about now.
The next day comes along rather quickly. Mostly because I usually sit and watch TV in the lobby till we're forced to go back to our rooms. If I'm not out in the lobby, I usually stay in my room and stare out the window. I don't sleep too much, because well, plainly put, I have night terrors. You know when you have something traumatic happen to you and when you sleep that's all you can dream about over and over, well, that's what's happening to me. But that's neither here nor there.
I push open the doors to my doctor's office.
He's already inside.
Of course, the pancakes are too as well as a side of scrambled eggs and bacon.
Man, it smells so good I could cry.
"Hello, Quintus," he says, motioning for me to take a seat.
My eyes remain fixated on the food as I practically scramble over to the chair to sit down.
Pretty sure I'm thinking with my stomach right now, but hell, I don't care. I just want some decent food.
The doctor hands me the food along with a plastic fork.
I immediately begin shamelessly scarfing down my food.
It's so good.
It's beyond good.
It's great.
Better than anything I've eaten in a long time.
Oh. He's staring at me.
I can feel my cheeks flaring up due to embarrassment.
I begin to eat like a civilized being.
Might as well start talking.
"When I was ten years old, I had to do a research project on a bug. I ended up with moths. Everyone else got somewhat majestic creatures, and I got dull moths. Little creatures that would, despite probably knowing better, fly themselves into the light and throw themselves repeatedly against the hot surface, ignoring whatever pain, because that's what it's programmed to do. And it's messed up, because more often than not, the moth kills itself doing so," I say, putting a piece of bacon in my mouth.
"Are you saying you want to die?" My doctor asks with his eyebrows arched.
"Huh? What? No! I'm trying to say is that people are like moths. Even when something or someone is bad for them, they'll keep at it anyway. They'll keep throwing themselves at the fire. Like moths to flame."
My doctor remains silent.
I'll take his silence as my cue to carry on.
"It all started when I turned 12 and received a package in the mail…"