The Moon's Brutal Embrace

Frank woke up to the clock radio’s red digits glaring 3:17 AM. Again. Always 3:17. Like a silent alarm set years ago that refused to turn off. The air in the bedroom felt thick, stale, even with the window cracked a sliver. Beside him, the bed was empty. Had been empty for three years, seven months, two weeks, and four days. Not that he was counting. He wasn’t. Not really. But the numbers, they just… stuck.

He swung his legs over the side, the old floorboards groaning a complaint. Cold. Bare feet on cold wood. That was one thing you never got used to. The absence. It wasn't just a physical space; it was a cold spot in the goddamn house, in his chest. He shuffled to the kitchen, grabbed a glass from the cupboard, filled it straight from the tap. Drank it down in one gulp, the chill of it a temporary distraction. No point in trying to go back to sleep. Not now. Not ever.

The back door creaked a little too loud as he pushed it open. Night air hit him, sharper than he expected. Smelled like damp earth and pine needles, maybe a hint of neighbor’s dying embers. A full moon, fat and yellow, hung low in the sky, spitting silver light through the skeletal branches of the ancient oak in his yard. The old swing set, rusting slowly into the ground, looked like a forgotten skeleton under that light. Kids were grown, gone. His kids. Hers too, now.

His gaze fell on the woodpile. Still a good half-cord there, even after a mild winter. He didn’t need to split any more. Not a single stick. But the axe. Leaning against the chopping block, a dull gleam on its head. He walked over, the grass wet beneath his bare feet. Picked it up. The heft of it, familiar. A solid thing in a world that felt like smoke and memory.

He pulled a fresh log from the pile. Oak, dense, stubborn. Set it on the block. The shadows from the tree stretched long, distorted. They twisted, moved, seemed to writhe with every tiny shift in the moon’s perspective, with every breath of wind. They weren't just shadows. They were all the things that haunted him. The arguments he lost, the words he never said, the hands he didn't hold tight enough.

He lifted the axe. Overhead, the blade caught the moonlight, a quick, cold flash. His shoulders bunched, muscles tightening. He brought it down. *WHUMP.* The wood didn't split cleanly, not at first. Just buried the blade. Frank grunted, pulled it out. Took a deeper breath. His chest tightened. He focused on the wood, on the line he imagined running down its middle. Again. *CRACK.* This time, a cleaner hit. The log split with a satisfying tear, two halves falling away from each other.

Sweat started beading on his forehead, on his upper lip. He took another log. And another. The rhythmic swing, the thud, the splintering wood. It was a brutal kind of rhythm, a silent, solitary dance under the indifferent eye of the moon. Each swing was a punch thrown at the emptiness, a blow aimed at the silence that had swallowed his life whole. The shadows seemed to grow longer, darker, coiling around his legs, his arms, his very breath. He felt them. He was battling them.

He saw her face in the grain of the wood for a split second. Her smile, right before he'd left for that job site, a Tuesday morning. He remembered the fight they’d had the night before, something stupid about bills. He remembered slamming the door. Never got to say sorry. Never got to say he loved her one last time. The axe came down harder. *SMACK!* The wood jumped, almost flew off the block. His hands trembled, not from fatigue, not yet, but from the raw jolt of a memory that never faded.

His shirt, what little he had on, was soaked. His arms screamed. His back felt like a twisted knot of rope. But he kept going. One more log. Then another. He wasn’t thinking. He was just doing. The physical pain, the ache in his joints, it was a balm compared to the other kind. The one that sat behind his ribs and gnawed. The shadows danced closer, then pulled back, like taunting adversaries. He’d swing, they’d ripple. He’d miss, they’d stretch long and mocking. He'd hit clean, they'd shrink, only to grow back with the next log.

Finally, he dropped the axe. It clanged on the earth, the sound loud in the vast quiet. His chest heaved, lungs burning. His vision blurred for a second. He stumbled back, collapsing onto the rough-hewn stump beside the block. The moonlight poured over him, washing him in its cold, indifferent glow. He looked up at it, a huge, indifferent eye in the black. His breath came in ragged gasps. The shadows, for now, had receded, waiting. He wiped a hand across his wet face, tasting salt and sweat.

He just sat there, staring up at that moon, the ache in his muscles a dull comfort, a sign that he was still here, still breathing. Still fighting the goddamn dark.