OK, first of all we need to do a backwards time roll to some point last month. I was absent-mindedly sitting in my bedroom when i noticed a clothes moth, chilling on the cupboard door. I watched it for a few moments to ponder its fate. They damage clothes, I reasoned inwardly, I cant let it live… My thumb reached out to merely an inch away from its body; no reaction. No attempt to escape. Not even a worried glance over the shoulder. This moth was innocent, I suddenly thought. It was probably starving, I dementedly continued inside my head. So what if it had a little chew on the carpet? Spare its life and it would move on.
Two Weeks Later:
Up until this moment, I had instilled a sense of wellbeing in myself. I had helped a friendly insect. Yay for me. No more moth sightings, and I believed Mothy (did I not tell you its name yet?) had graciously departed and found a new home. Mothy, however, had evidently devised a more sinister plan. It must have smuggled in a breeding companion, as, seemingly instantaneously, there were six young moths fluttering around my room. They had abused my trust, my mothspitality. Mothy had taken it too far this time, I thought, so I methodically tracked down each of his children, and splatted them on the wall. I threw down the gauntlet, and Mothy was nowhere to be seen. I had hoped he was frightened off. I had sent out a message: Do not fuck with me moths.
Later that week:
A couple of days had passed since the massacre. My sympathies with the moth populous had waned. I had developed a blood-lust by now, and I was grimly hoping that more would be foolish enough to consider trespassing on my property. And i got my wish. Two moths appeared, they were young. I thought, Mothy you old fox, you’re still here aren’t you? I attacked, frenzied by the thrill of the hunt, and spilled the blood of one, but the other desperately fled. I failed to catch it. I exhibited its fallen comrade to the rest of the room, still crushed upon the weapon against which it perished, a Bill Bryson book, as an example to the others. Secretly, however, I felt ill at ease. Where the moths previously had been impassive to my presence, they were now running from me, they had become wise to my intentions.
Four Days Later:
Lying in bed, distracted by literature, my peripheral vision screamed alert to the tune of fluttery movement. I leapt out, and pivoted seamlessly, wielding the crushing Bill Bryson Tome of death, but it was already gone. The stomach twisting revelation hit me; it was testing my speed. Mothy had scouts gaining intelligence on me. The bastard must have been preparing a counter attack.
The Next Night:
Under the same circumstances of the previous night, the same damn moth arrogantly fluttered past once again. I waited for a chance to strike, then wildly bludgeoned at it with the deadly literature. But it was to no avail. Its evasion techniques were too good. Worryingly, the moths had started using their camouflage against the earthen colours in the carpet. It escaped behind my bed, leaving me seething with rage. I panicked: Were they amassing an army from under the bed on which I sleep, and for how long had they now been observing me, malevolently plotting?
Desperate to reattain the upper hand, I did a little research. It appeared that clothes-moths have an innate desire to journey outwards at dusk, so I dimmed the lights to simulate this, and waited for a patrol to pass. Then, as I had hoped, an instant sighting. At high speed, it desperately soared past me. I clumsily lunged at it with my book of war, and stunned it. It spiralled downwards, smoke and flames trailing in its wake (I imagined that bit, actually) but as I wretchedly groped around on the floor, to finish it off, there was no sign of it. I can only speculate that there must have been a high speed, high risk rescue, hatched from underneath my bed to drag it to safety. The moths were showing conradery, solidarity, teamwork.
The Following Morning:
I rose to a sitting position in my bed. I waited quietly, to check that there were no moth operations underway. Nothing immediately suspicious came to light. Then, something flashed past my vision from above. I rolled desperately across the bed to see a bundle of dust ponderously sinking toward my bedsheets. A rush of adrenaline shot down through my shoulders and into my chest. Of course, I never saw the dust rise. The dust doesn’t rise. It only ever falls. Logic gripped me and told me that which I dreaded; the moths were dust-bombing me. They have been following me everywhere, observing my allergies. They knew I would sneeze if I breathed in dust. It all came to the fore; this was an aggressive assault.
A few tense, maddening days have passed. I now live in a prison of fear and paranoia. The moths will get to me, they have grown too intelligent, too strong, fast, vengeful, conniving. Just after lunch I risked turning on my computer, and I came face to face with Mothy for the first time since day one. It launched a stealth attack, having crept past me without my realising. I knew now for sure that Mothy was behind it all. Ever since I wrought pain, despair and death on Mothy’s family, this was the ultimate goal, to take me down. The moth arrowed towards my neck, but fortunately I was just fast enough to evade the attack. I rolled sideways out of my chair, and looked up helplessly. God alone knows what foul moth weapon it was wielding at my throat. My eyes scanned the room, but Mothy had disappeared, presumably lurking and observing, devising the next assault.
At this stage I am celebrating any minor victories, as they are all that remain. I have lost the war, and am trying merely to survive the small pockets of battles remaining. I lasted the night, and that at least is positive. So now all that remains is a mutual waiting game, while Mothy searches for my weaknesses, for an upper hand. I am not aware of how this will end, but I ask desperately for you to listen to me when I tell you the end could be nigh; for why would these mutant hyper-moths stop only at me? I worry for mankind. I have created a mothster, a vengeful beast, that is bearing its teeth not only at me, but soon the world.