Line Up, Moths to Flame

Sufficiently caffeinated, Aster and Sylvia set back across the street, eager to return to the record shop— Aster especially so, after the ordeal that was Sylvia's attempt at raising her spirit. As they drew near a commotion could be heard emanating from inside which spilled out into the street, leading Sylvia in great excitement to reach for Aster's hand, excited to discover what was happening inside.

Aster resisted, an intense bout of fear and nervousness washing over her as Sísí's voice became audible as they came up to the door of the shop. The curtains of the shop windows had been drawn, rendering the true state of the commotion inside unknowable, which all the more fueled Sylvia's increasingly rabid excitement to see for herself.

Sylvia, reading the worried expression that came across Aster's face, grasped her hands firmly. “What did we just talk about at the coffee shop? About making up with Cecil?" she asked her with a stern look.

Aster winced, breaking eye contact. Sylvia did not waver.

“Haven't you been waiting for something like this? It's a big opportunity Aster! The Cherubs are going to be there!” Sylvia threw her short arms up in theatrical fashion, admonishing Aster with the most serious look her decidedly nonthreatening face could muster.

Aster could hear the frenetic thump of her heart clear against the silence of the empty winter streets as Sísí's voice trailed away momentarily. If there was only one thing she wished for in moments like these, it would be for her body to just not tremble so violently. If she were given even the most fleeting moment to gather her thoughts, maybe the anguish of these daily occurrences could be even the slightest bit tolerable.

But never was she fortunate enough to know that relief, and so in moments like these, she knew all there was to be done was submit her terrified vessel headfirst into whatever situation scared it so, lest nothing ever be done.

If it makes you anxious, it's worth it, she thought to herself, closing her eyes.

She looked towards the ground and nodded her head, signaling to Sylvia that she was ready. Sylvia wished her good luck and embraced her in a hug, before opening the door.

The scene that met them caused Sylvia to cry out in excitement while Aster just about cried. In the corner of the completely dark store sat Sísí, enshrined in a bouquet of lights and smoke, orating with thespian air.

What the fuck, thought Aster.

Around her were gathered a number of strangers— a dozen or so from what Aster could see— not engaged in shopping but rather giving polite audience to Sísí, who delivered her lines with a playful grin.

Better a broken heart than one that wonders what it is to break, she recited firmly, her sharp eyes looking out to the crowd before her. Aster's snow-weary eyes struggled to adjust to the darkened shop, but as her vision came to focus she could see it was the listening corner that she had set up in. The leather chair, worn with use by Mr. Floyd, now perched upon a makeshift plywood stage which was warmed by the glow of cheap rental lights arranged on the floor around it. Tattered, flowing sheets of maroon hung to each side and behind her.

Poetry readings? she thought to herself, looking at their setup with great curiosity. She wondered how long this had been planned for and just how it was arranged in the hour they were gone. She then again looked to the crowd of strangers and thought not a second more before deciding that she would much rather attempt to slip by Sylvia unnoticed up to her room.

I'm sorry Sylvia, she lamented in her great anxiety as she began to scurry behind the crowd, head down as if it afforded her some manner of stealth more than usual.

She wished only to finally rest for the day. She had no plan for the Teen's Ball, which loomed only two days away, and she had no heart to speak with Cecil at the moment— altered though as her attitude towards him had become in the past hour. Her nerves and self-esteem were frayed, and she felt particularly unable to engage with others in any way that wouldn't afford her more terrible embarrassments that would only add to the insomnia fodder she already spent so much of her time dwelling on.

And so, skittishly she darted across the shop, the world seemingly silent as she focused on the staircase leading to her bedroom, closer and closer in sight— then her heart sank.

“Aster,” Sylvia called out, hand on hip. Aster froze, weeping to herself in a thousand recitations of “fuck” as she turned to Sylvia who stood to the side of the gathering. Aware her retreat was soundly defeated, she relented in great hesitance and shame to join her.

Sylvia pointed off to the side, towards the waning edge of the spotlight's glow where Cecil could be seen reading over what Aster assumed was his own poetry.

The surge of anxiety she received upon seeing him was immense. The mere thought that she would be the one initiating a conversation was nearly inconceivable. For as long as she could remember, it was always others who approached her. Just the sight of Cecil alone filled her with an irritation such that any attempt at conversation— let alone one she would have to initiate— was sure to falter immediately and die a horrific, awkward death in a turbid grave of anxiety and ineffective attempts to hide her anger towards him.

Sylvia once again grasped Aster's hands, and gave her a resolute look. “You have to talk with him,” she told her firmly. “Sometimes Cecil disappears for days when he gets sad, so you're lucky you even have the chance to patch it up this quickly!”

Aster pulled her hands away, tears slowly welling up as her heart raced. A specter of anguish left a kiss down her neck that traversed her spine in a writhing, complete shudder of her body as her heart began to race uncontrollably.

Sísí, regal in bohemian garb, sat perched upon the leather chair, reciting a stanza from The Tomb of the Unknown Soldier:

Line up, moths to flame

And cast thy story to embers

With hope a legacy lost

Becomes a lottery won

With uneasy, leaden steps she made her way to the edge of the stage. Cecil, finally noticing her approach, locked eyes with her in an expression that was not far removed from the grimace Aster adorned as she finally, awkwardly reached him.

Neither spoke for a second. Nor the first several after. Cecil pretended to be more heavily involved with the reading of his poetry than of noticing the antsy, fidgeting girl beside him.

But his charade was not successful. It was immediately obvious to both parties the utter unbearable nature of the entire situation and this shared realization only served to make it that much more anxious an affair with each passing second.

And so accordingly, Aster moved to open up the discussion in a surprising turn of events.

“I met The Cherubs,” she stuttered out abruptly, to which all charade of Cecil's ignorance of her presence immediately evaporated, his face flushing once again with irritation at their mention. He moved away from her, telling her it was soon his turn for his recital as she panicked.

“You're right, they're assholes,” she sputtered. Cecil stopped and turned back to face her. There was little emotion in his expression, but that also meant that she had pulled him back from a repeat of the outburst earlier.

“Where exactly did you meet them?” he asked, resting his manuscript at his side.

“At the coffee shop, Sylvia took me there to—“

“To cool off?”

Aster shook her head in embarrassment in response, “I told them about our song with Johnny and—”

“Wait, you did what?” Cecil replied in total surprise. Aster tensed, worried she'd inadvertently already torpedoed their discussion. Instead, Cecil seemed to lighten up a little.

“I'm surprised you told anybody anything to be honest. You're definitely not one for talking to people.”

Aster frowned intensely at this and couldn't help but flush red with embarrassment. She'd always deeply hated how conspicuous her social anxiety was.

“They didn't care,” she continued. “I was hoping they'd be just as angry but all they could say in response was 'too bad,'” Aster's tone turned hostile as she recalled it.

“Like they could have ever given Johnny a fucking hit if it was them!” she exasperated, her eyes welling up.

“Other people's songs do matter,” Cecil scowled, turning away once again. Aster, shaken from her onset of tears, flashed even redder shades of shame in her realization of what she had said and called out meekly to Cecil as he began to walk away.

“I get how you feel and I'm sorry,” she stuttered. “It's fucking terrible to have nobody listen to something you put all your time and effort into. And it's awful to not be able to even come up with them in the first place.” Aster clenched her fists. Her instinct was to raise her voice but the primal guard of her deep-seated anxiety preferred a mousy little voice as she called after Cecil.

“Before I came here, I had nobody to share my fucking songs with,” she continued. A few tears came slowly, but all at once she began sobbing. Cecil, seeing this, escorted Aster away from the crowd and off to her room.

“Nobody. Nobody would fucking listen,” she continued to cry as Cecil sat her down on the bed. “It was never good enough! I kept writing songs and then I eventually couldn't. I became so insecure about the thing I fucking loved the most. I wanted to fucking kill myself!” Aster's heart rushed as she screamed those last few words. Nobody in the world outside of Nancy had any knowledge of Aster's suicidal inclinations. Cecil looked on with an increasingly deep mixture of worry and concern, as all hints of combativeness dropped from his face.

“I'm sorry to hear that,” he told her, taking a seat in the stool usually reserved for Sylvia, “I can't say that it's gotten that bad for me, but it is extremely demoralizing, as you've seen.”

Even when it came to serious matters, Cecil spoke reservedly. A tone of control was present at all points where others might succumb to emotion and withdraw or explode, as Cecil instead simply explained his positions.

Aster continued to weep as he sat in awkward discomfort, visibly pondering something.

“You still want to play the show, right?” he asked.

Aster sniffled, and looked up to him with her swollen, sleep-deprived eyes.

“Do you?”

“Yes,” she hiccuped.

“Then teach me how to write songs, and I'll play the Teen's Ball,”

Aster stopped crying. The grandiose echoes of Sísí could be heard clearly from the staircase, along with the characteristic cries of applause from Sylvia.

“Okay,” Aster mumbled simply, wiping at her eyes.

“Alright, well we have to practice then don't we,” he said, rising from the stool. He extended a hand out to Aster, the slightest hint of a good mood now apparent in his face.

“What about downstairs—”

“She only threw it to cheer me up. Besides—” He turned to Aster with that look of characteristic reservedness.

“—The Love You Forevers have a ball to play.”

—

A deep exhale echoed throughout the room. Aster lurched forward, sucking in deep breaths of air. She turned and noticed Nancy withdrawing a needle from her forearm.

“Take your time,” Nancy remarked as Aster struggled to catch her breath. That despair-tinged sensation of sight warping and balance tipped askew, was once more upon her. She wiped at the sweat on her brow, trying with great effort to address Nancy, though her disorientation left her barely able to speak.

Though she had left Peppermint Plains this time with the relative assurance of her return, the act of leaving it was still significantly debilitating.

“I— I got the tape,” Aster stammered. Her chest heaved in anxious excitement to discuss all that had happened to her in the past two virtual weeks.

Nancy raised an eyebrow in response, but proceeded to clean the needle and walk away from Aster. “Good job,” she gave simply, “Can you walk?”

Aster sat up in an uneven manner, still trembling. She turned to Nancy with a look of confusion at her response. “Wait, don't you want to know what happened? What am I supposed to do next?”

“There will be time for that tomorrow,” Nancy replied, reaching to help her up. “If you're not home in time you're going to raise suspicions.”

Aster staggered to her feet with Nancy's help, stumbling. Her heart shivered at the remembrance of her first therapy session which awaited the next morning.

Nancy turned to Aster, and relaxed her expression, noticing the nervousness painted across her face.

“You have something to live for now, don't you? Then fight like it, and give her no chance to institutionalize you.”

The grand scope of Nancy's living room bent and warped before Aster, tunneling in on a piano at the far end of it. Nancy had set the Eden device upon it.

“Because she will be searching for any reason to do so.”