It was the kind of scream you usually hear in slasher movies right before the title card drops. It cut through the silence of 3:00 AM, primal and terrified.
I shot up in bed, heart hammering. Beside me, the Hulk was having a seizure.
I woke up to my husband screaming like he was being murdered.
He was flailing wildly, slapping at his face, kicking the duvet off the bed.
“‘Get it off! Get it off!’” he shrieked, thrashing around.
My mind went to the worst-case scenarios. A bat? A rat? A burglar with a knife? Adrenaline flooded my system. I reached for the lamp switch, my hand trembling.
I turned on the light, terrified, ready to fight an attacker.
I scanned the room for the threat. I looked for blood. I looked for the intruder.
All I saw was a tiny, gray speck fluttering lazily toward the ceiling light.
It was a moth.
I looked at the speck. Then I looked at my husband. He was pressed against the headboard, breathing like he had just run a marathon, clutching a pillow to his massive chest.
It was a very small, dusty moth that had landed on his nose.
The contrast was almost artistic. He is a 6’4″ bodybuilder. This is a man who deadlifts refrigerators for fun. A man who opens pickle jars by looking at them. And he had just been reduced to a quivering mess by an insect whose primary defense mechanism is being slightly powdery.
He slowly lowered the pillow. He saw the moth. He saw me looking at the moth. He saw me looking at him.
He didn’t say a word. He just laid back down, pulled the covers up to his chin, and stared at the wall.
We haven’t spoken of it since.
We live in a silent treaty now. I pretend I didn’t see the fear in his eyes, and he pretends he isn’t afraid of winged dust bunnies. But every time a butterfly flies past us in the park, I see him flinch, and I know the trauma is real.
