Natasha has trauma and pain. She asks the narrator to make it all go away, but my narrator cannot. She goes out in search of others who can, flirting with danger, potentially with disaster. I had established a “moth-to-the-flame” motif earlier in the Work In Progress; so.
My little moth hangs about around trouble.
She finds tragic headlines and heads there, hoping. I find her lingering about beyond the cordoned-off areas of police barriers. She lingers around hoping for a trace of rumour, a taste of the supernatural. She goes away, starving. She haunts troubled neighbourhoods, looking for a scrap of the surreal. She tries befriending the downtrodden, the disenfranchised of the streets, the unscrupulous; but they know their kind and they withdraw from her, suspicious.
Why do you try, little moth, why.