ORIGINS: The fourth character’s nose reminded us of a snail with a crescent moon painted on its shell. Home sweet home.
I am not a very good liar. I wish I were. I wish I could do like snails do. Hide every little part of myself inside my own shell, and stick them all onto the darkness of the moon, until it shone bright, full with lies, and that was all others saw. But my darkness shows. It bleeds through my snail shell, stealing the moon’s name when it dries up. And I am stuck, with a depressing truth, that promises to only grow darker with time.
I like snails because they come with their own home. Once, I tried to make my home on the moon, but it didn’t work. I thought that someone who embodied loneliness would welcome me with open arms and a grateful smile on her face, but I was wrong. Moonlight wasn’t loneliness, it was self-pity. The moon only had eyes for herself, and what should have been a smile, what should have been an embrace, cut me deep instead. But her name was engraved on my mind, she would always be Loneliness to me. So, I found a snail and carved its shell into a crescent moon. And I am still waiting. For the day he dies, and I can inherit his home.
A snail gave me a lollipop once. It tasted bittersweet, and I remember thinking that surely that was what the moon would taste like, but the touch of sadness probably just came from my own tears. After all, the moon is like an endless spiral. She has her dark moments, but the light always comes back. Like clockwork. Like a promise that won’t be broken. And what can be more reassuring, more sweet than that? Certainly not the words I tell myself, after my tears have dried but their trails remain on my face. Not those words that move at a snail’s pace, and never seem to reach my heart in time to change how it tastes.
When I was young I didn’t play with dolls. I had a dollhouse, and I filled it with snails. I never put my words in their mouths. I let them keep their secrets inside their shells at night, when the moon shone bright, and I could hear the screams start to fill the house like ghosts. I had no interest in recreating the past. I dreamed about my future, and I made sure not to breathe a word of those dreams. Not in that house. I kept my own secrets, and I counted the nights until I could leave that moon and its ghosts behind. It never happened, of course. I will always carry the scars of those cutting smiles and unforgiving scowls with me wherever I go. But at least I can sleep soundly at night, knowing that the words inside my mouth are my own.
I don’t need a hug; keep your insecurities to yourself. I am not lonely; I am not starved for affection. I am not a moon in need of your light. I am a snail, but no matter what you say, those aren’t tears in my wake. I am not crying out for your help. I would just like to go on with my life, without having to hide from people like you.
What do you want us to say? Our snail couldn’t do anything about the shape of its shell. Some things in life are like a spiral that cannot be escaped. Take the moon for instance. Its light always comes back. After the waves crash into the sea, they always rise again. That is the worst thing about hope. That no matter how many times you have been hurt, there is always a sliver of light telling you to try again.
We are not thieves in the night. We are assassins, but the moon refuses to stay dead. If it were a bird, it would have been as easy as poisoning one or two snails. But the moon is a smile at heart. That’s the reason she always comes back. Because even if they don’t ring true, there will always be kind words in the world. And desperately lonely people don’t care about the difference.
I am dizzy; I feel lost. This snail shell should feel like home to me, but I keep looking out. I don’t think that I am lonely, but my eyes keep straying to the moon. And I don’t know why. There is no conflict inside me; there aren’t two colors vying for my voice. I still am who I have always been. And maybe that’s it. Maybe discontent has finally caught up with me, at its snail’s pace.