Wie tegen monsters vecht, moet ervoor waken dat hij daarbij zelf een monster wordt. Als je maar lang genoeg in een afrond kijkt, kijkt de afgrond ook in jou.

- Friedrich Nietzsche

The air is warm and damp like a boiled-egg burp, the sulfur from the swamp oppressive in the summer heat. I tiptoe toward the driveway and stand there for a while, peering down that road toward home. The woods on either side are pitch-black, but I force myself to take a step forward. And then another. Another. Soon, I'm approaching the house. I had forgotten how absolute the darkness is out here, with no lights from the street or neighbouring houses - but with that perfect, inky contrast, the moonlight always shines so bright. I look up at the full moon above me, totally unobscured. It beams on the house like a spotlight, making it glow. I can see it now, perfectly - the chipped white paint, the wood siding peeling under years of heat and humidity, the grass growing wild beneath my feet. Vines crawl up the side of the house like veins, giving it an otherworldly appearance, pulsing with devilish life.
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I make my way toward my car, hands in my pockets, watching as dusk smears the horizon with pinks and yellows and oranges - one last moment of colour before the darkness settles in again, the way it always does. And that's when I notice it: the air around me buzzing with that familiar electrical charge. I stop, stand completely still, watching. Waiting. And then I cup my hands and grab at the sky, feeling a slight fluttering in my palms as I squeeze them shut. I stare down into my clenched fingers, at the thing I have trapped inside. At the life, quite literally, that rests in my hands. Then I bring it up to my face, peering through the tiny hole between my fingers.
Inside, a single firefly glows bright, its body pulsing with life.

I eyed her carefully, her flat stomach sticking out from beneath a skintight henley that looked two sizes too small, pushing her cleavage up through the buttons. I caught a glimpse of something sparkly on her stomach - a belly-button ring - and I immediately snapped my head back up, trying not to stare. She smiled at me, lifting the bottle to her lips. I watched a bead of liquid dribble down her chin before she wiped it with her middle finger. “Do you like it?” She pulled her shirt up, rolled the diamond between her fingers. There was a charm dangling beneath it, some kind of bug. “It”s a firefly,” she said, reading my mind. “They're my favourite. It glows in the dark.” She cupped her hands around her stomach and motioned for me to peek through; I did, my forehead pressed against the edges of her hands. Inside, the bug had turned a bright, neon green. “I like to catch them”, she said, looking down at her stomach. “Put them in a jar.” “I do, too,” I said, still peeking through the hole in her hands. It reminded me of the fireflies that emerged in our trees at night, the way I would run through the darkness, swatting at them like I was swimming through stars. “And then I take them out and squish them between my fingers. Did you know you can write your name on the sidewalk with their glow?” I winced; I couldn't imagine squishing a bug with my bare hands, listening to it pop. But that did seem kind of cool, getting to rub its liquid between my fingers, watching it radiate up close, pg 73