Moonlit Grapple

The porch wood groaned its nightly protest as Elias pushed off, boots scuffing the worn planks. The air bit hard, sharp with the smell of damp earth and dying leaves. Above, a full moon hung, bloated and white, bleeding light across the overgrown patch he called a backyard. Shadows stretched long and thin, like skeletal fingers reaching for him. He walked to the center, where the old swing set, rusted and silent, used to stand. Now, it was just a patch of flattened, dead grass, a bald spot in the wild. He always started there.

His first movements were clumsy, heavy, like an old truck trying to start on a cold morning. Not a dance, not really. More like a man trying to shake off an invisible cloak, or maybe trying to put one on. He lifted his arms, then let them fall, shoulders rounded. He swayed, a slow, deliberate rock from side to side, his breath misting in the frigid air. The moon made him stark, a silhouette against the dark line of trees, his own shadow a monstrous twin mimicking his every hesitant gesture.

Leo. The name wasn't spoken, not aloud, not anymore. But it was in the way Elias's hands flexed, remember the weight of a small body, the warmth of a boy tucked against his chest. It was in the sudden, sharp intake of breath, like a punch to the gut. This yard, this patch of ground, had been Leo's kingdom. A rusty red ball, forgotten by the fence line, was a phantom limb aching with memory. He saw Leo, a blur of energy, chasing fireflies, his laughter a bright, clear bell that still rang in the quiet of Elias's skull.

His muscles screamed, not from the gentle swaying, but from the tension coiled deep inside. He started to push, to pull, like he was dragging something impossibly heavy across the ground. His feet shuffled, kicking up dust and bits of dry weed. Sweat beaded on his forehead, cold despite the exertion. He grunted, a low, animal sound torn from his throat. The shadows lengthened and shortened with his movements, stretching out, then recoiling, never quite touching, always just out of reach. He chased them, or they chased him, he wasn't sure anymore.

He remembered that night. The emergency room lights, too bright, too sterile. The doctor's face, a blur of sympathetic regret. The way Leo's small hand, still warm, had gone limp in his. That was the shadow that truly clung to him, not the ones cast by the moon. That was the one that followed him into his empty bed, that sat across from him at the kitchen table, that whispered his name when he was alone. The moon, indifferent, just kept watching.

The rhythm picked up, a desperate, frantic energy coursing through his aging frame. He threw his arms wide, a wild, almost violent arc, as if trying to rip the moon from the sky. Then he coiled inward, hands gripping his own chest, a desperate embrace of nothing. He twisted, he lunged, his body a blur of motion, battling an unseen opponent. His breath came in ragged gasps now, each one a testament to the effort, the raw, ugly fight he put up every goddamn night. He wasn't dancing with shadows; he was fighting them, trying to punch holes in the darkness that swallowed everything good.

He stumbled, his knee nearly buckling under him, but he caught himself, gritting his teeth, a feral snarl escaping his lips. He wouldn't fall. Not yet. He couldn't. This was the only place he could let it all out, this choked, suffocating grief. Inside, in the silent house, he was a statue, a man carved from stone, just going through the motions. Out here, under that cold, judging moon, he was raw, a weeping wound, finally allowed to bleed. The physical pain was a welcome distraction, a solid thing to focus on instead of the bottomless ache in his soul.

The shadows flickered, shifting shapes, morphing into the outline of a child, then melting away into the general gloom. They were tricksters, these shadows, playing with his mind. Or maybe they were just showing him what was already there, the ghosts he carried everywhere he went. He closed his eyes for a moment, swaying, the world spinning. The cold air felt good, sharp, waking him up from the numb fog that usually enveloped him. He opened his eyes, staring directly at the moon, daring it to break him.

With a final, guttural roar that ripped through the quiet night, he threw himself forward, arms outstretched, then collapsed to his knees, his hands digging into the cold, damp earth. His chest heaved, lungs burning, throat raw. He stayed there for a long time, head bowed, the sweat dripping from his chin, staining the dirt. The moon continued its silent vigil, casting its pale light on the man broken in its embrace.

Slowly, painstakingly, he pushed himself up. His body ached, every joint, every muscle screaming its protest. But the knot in his chest, the one that tightened tighter with each passing day, felt a fraction looser. Just a fraction. He wiped his mouth with the back of a shaking hand, tasting salt and dust. He glanced back at the flattened patch of grass, then at the empty porch. The house looked darker, colder, more alone than ever.

He turned, his heavy boots dragging a line through the dew-kissed grass, heading back towards the silent, waiting door. Tomorrow night, the moon would rise again. And so would he.