Lurkers of the Swamp

Based on a monologue by Ella Muscroft

The moon is almost blindingly bright tonight. It’s impossible to ignore. Driving on a lonely stretch of highway, surrounded only by fields of grass, it beams through my windshield so overwhelmingly I can barely see in front of me. 

Spotting a dirt pull-off on my side of the road, I turn into it, park the car, and step outside. I don’t even close the door behind me before the silver halo surrounding this cratered spotlight holds my gaze in its grip. 

Briefly, I snap out of my reverie enough to close my car door. I decide to stay for a few minutes and take in the spectacle. I sit on the hood of my car and stare into the night sky. If there are stars twinkling, I don’t notice them. 

All I can focus on is the moon. I don’t move my neck, my head, or even my eyes. Time stops, or at least no longer has any meaning to me. My universe consists entirely of this silver sphere. It’s completely full. I haven’t seen a moon this full in years. Maybe I haven’t paid enough attention. 

When I was a kid, we had one constant in our family routine: before winding down for the night, we’d walk onto our porch and gaze at the night sky. My dad, my brother Matt, my sister Katie, and I literally stared into space right before bed, peering out of the windows if snow or rain covered the porch. We wound down by focusing solely on our surroundings. We paid attention only to our breath. We didn’t say a single word. On road trips, we’d sometimes pull over to the side of the road to watch the moon, my family staying inside the car as I, and sometimes Katie, walked outside to embrace the night air. 

On nights I couldn’t sleep or woke up suddenly, heart racing from constant thoughts or a nightmare or excitement for the morning, I’d look out of my window into the sky. If I saw the moon on a quiet summer night, I’d walk out into our yard, lie down on the grass, and stare up at it. If I didn’t have to sleep, I could stare at it for hours. It brought me a powerful serenity I could never describe. 

I last saw a moon this full from the top of a hill. Katie and I had snuck out of the house while Matt and our dad were asleep. She wanted me to try something. Refusing to tell me what until we went outside, she insisted that I follow her and beckoned me out of the house. We got in her car and drove to a secret spot she’d found with her friends. Once we arrived, she pulled something out of her pocket. She brought her hand out and opened her palm. Two colored capsules sat there. 

She told me classmates had passed around a few over the last couple of weeks, and she’d finally gotten some. Apparently, she’d tried one three nights before. Now, she wanted to try another with me. She wanted us to try it together. She told me nothing had ever made her feel so euphoric. Naively, I decided it was worth a try. 

We each took a capsule. We stared at the moon as we waited for their full effects. Before I knew it, I woke up the next morning. I will never forget waking up in that hospital bed, the clinically white lights burning my eyes, a cast on my left arm and right leg, a nagging tension in my chest. 

We’d tried to drive home before the others noticed we’d gone. Katie got behind the wheel. She didn’t stop before turning onto the highway. There I lay, in critical condition, hearing the paramedics tell me they couldn’t have done anything for Katie, and I didn’t remember a thing after that. 

I still don’t remember most of that night. I don’t remember when we started driving. I don’t know why we thought we could make it home. I certainly don’t remember feeling any of

the euphoria she talked about. All I knew then was physical pain – my broken bones. All I know now is emotional pain – the hole in my chest where my sister used to be. 

The truth is, ever since that night, knowing the moon is there has always turned my stomach. I try to tune it out now. This evening… I can’t. Parked here, this silver spotlight aims right at me, locking me into one place like a deer afraid for its life. Finally, for the first time in years, I let myself absorb it. I let myself feel it all. I let my childhood serenity mix with my compartmentalized grief like paint creating my life’s canvas. It all washes over me. I start to cry. 

These tears are neither wholly joyful nor wholly hopeless. They’re a mix of everything else I’ve forced myself to forget. I realize I never forgot anything except for the one night I wish I could remember. Now, I don’t push my fears down. I stare them right in their face.

I remember why I loved the moon so much. When it absorbs you, all you sense is its light surrounding your entire essence. I almost feel in this moment that Katie and I are looking up at the moon together. I won’t see her again for a long time, but at least we can share this moment. Maybe we can share these nights.

The moonlight surrounds me. It’s become all-encompassing. I let it completely swallow me up.