Death Of A Moth

Death Of A Moth

The moth fluttered its wings hard. It carved patterns of ellipses, and
curves in the water. Erratic and beautiful. The despair was almost
tangible. Jade was held in thrall. Gripped by a combination of
fascination, and horror, at the plight of the creature. Did it feel
terror, or was the fevered beating of wings, an impulsive reaction. A
nerve-driven reflex response, engendered by millions of years of
evolution, intended to give the species, and indeed the creature the
best chance of survival?

Intermittently, the fluttering would stop. There would be few signs of
life, and Jade would wonder if she was witnessing the final death
throes at the end of a valiant battle. Again the beating of wings. Not
as prolonged, this time. The period of inactivity lengthening each
time. Jade became distracted. She regarded her own naked flesh.
Outside, the Pretoria heat was oppressive. The air had been brutally
strangled, so that oxygen was at a premium, and the warmth of the day
had been compressed between the sky, and the parched, dusty earth. Yet
here, in the cool of the bathroom, her white flesh was puckered with
goose pimples. As the moth kicked, to no effect, Jade was overwhelmed
by a sense of terror, troubled by a memory, which the sub-conscious
could never quite suppress.

She focused her attention back on the toilet. The efforts of the moth
were now fitful, and sporadic. Jade applied gentle pressure to the
handle, and observed the rivulets of water forming a whirlpool, with
the moth at the epicenter. Jade was overwhelmed by a sense of guilt, as
she had watched the suffering of an innocent creature, when it was
within her powers to intervene, and put an end to the torment. The
guilt was made worse, since it was Jade herself who had deposited the
moth in the toilet. The water calmed, and the moth was still there.
Jade remembered a dark hand over her mouth. The panic of trying to gulp
sufficient oxygen. The taste of sweat from the hand. Unwittingly, she
screamed.

Almost instantly, the door flew open, and jade was joined by Connie,
the maid. A heavy-framed woman, in her forties, Jade had known Connie
since early childhood, when Connie had sung traditional African
lullabys to soothe her to sleep in the heat of the afternoon. The bath
was full to overflowing. Connie turned off the taps. She took a
dressing gown from the back of the door, and wrapped it around Jade's
shoulders. Over the past five years, Connie had become used to the mood
swings. The days, sometimes weeks, of deep depression. The medication,
which enabled Jade to display a semblance of normality, in a life which
had held such promise.

Following the fixed stare of the younger woman, Connie's eyes focussed
on the moth. The small body spasmed, and sent tiny ripples towards the
edge of the bowl. She took her hands from Jade's shoulders, and placed
them over her eyes. Her mind drifted back to November 1983. For two
hours, she had waited, sitting on a hard, plastic chair in a police
station on the outskirts of Pretoria. The policeman had asked her to
sign a form. He was brusque, and matter of fact. There was some
evidence of torture. The body bore signs of burns, indicating possible
electric shock. The chances of apprehending the perpetrators were
remote. The words were delivered impassively, in thick Afrikaans.
Connie looked into the cold, steel blue eyes of the policeman, as if
hoping to penetrate his heart. She wondered if he had applied the
electrodes to her uncle, holding them firm, as he screamed. Or held him
down, as he struggled. She had confirmed that the dead man was her
uncle, and left the police station.

The funeral was a grand affair. Uncle Paul's involvement with the ANC
had not met with approval from everyone in the family. However, there
was considerable pride, particularly among the younger members, in his
stance against Apartheid, and also in the evident esteem in which he
was held by the community. Connie felt very little. She cried without
really knowing why. The wound was fresh, and the realization that it
would leave a permanent, indelible scar had not yet dawned. She watched
the coffin being lowered into the moist, black, freshly dug earth.
Later, she would remember little, other than a feeling that this box,
and the distorted body within, had little to do with the Uncle that she
knew. The emotion, the love, the grief : that was uncle Paul. There was
something of his energy captured that day. She comforted John Paul, her
thirteen year old nephew, who fought fiercely against his tears, as the
pastor eulogized about his father.

Jade could not be sure whether the bathroom light flickered, or whether
she blinked. Either way, she was distracted from her musings, and
became fully aware, for the first time, of the presence of the other
woman. Jade spoke softly. "He hurt me". Now it was Connie's turn to be
shaken from her own private world. Jade had not spoken about the rape,
since the night that it had happened. She had refused to give any
details, and her assailant's identity remained a mystery. Connie
nodded. Sympathetically. Encouragingly. She had witnessed the
shattering of a life. The disintegration of a family. Felt the despair
of Jade's mother, as Jade's father had left the police force through
ill health. Collected the bottles from the lounge floor, after his
binges. Craved a resolution that could never come.

The two women stared hard at each other. An intense gaze, that seemed
to last for several minutes, as the moth submitted, and lay motionless
in the water. When Jade eventually spoke, it was almost a whisper. "
John Paul. He hurt me."