A girl wakes up and a stranger is sitting on her chest, incubus-style. She’s an ordinary human, a regular girl with a regular life, but something inside her wakes up. A crazy, beautiful, almost superhuman force. She fights and fights, her throat is slashed ear to ear, and she keeps fighting. She makes it to the bathroom and barricades the door and holds her own throat shut until the ambulance gets there.
Miles and years away, another stranger is drinking human blood. He is a true believer. He is simply doing what he has to do to survive. And to survive he has wandered into a house and systematically murdered everyone who lives there. He needs blood! He himself broke long ago. And easily. The world tapped on his brain like a fingernail on an egg. It cracked and spilled and no one paid attention and now here he is, covered in the blood of babies.
There’s a mystery to humans, to any human. The psyche, a human’s “animating spirit,” is often represented as a moth: a dusty creature draw toward what kills it. Did you know Jeffrey Dahmer was baptized in jail, and when he emerged from the whirlpool, he smiled? What neurons fired then? What wings brushed across his cortex?