The Moth

Well, here is a short story that I had to write for school. It's not my best but it's pretty good since our limit of words was 750. It's supposed to be for Halloween, I guess it's a little late :)

“Leave it alone!” Bertha’s shrill voice pierced through the brisk fall air. “It’s just a little caterpillar! What did it ever do to you?” She scooped up the caterpillar that was the target of the two little boys’ torture. She ran to her house and slammed down her backpack. It was twilight; Bertha gazed at the setting sun and then walked over to three trees that stood in her front yard.
“It’s not your fault you’re a small, defenseless caterpillar,” Bertha laid the black caterpillar on the branch of one of the trees. She brushed aside a strand of mousy brown hair that had fallen out of the braid that hung down her back. She watched as the caterpillar immediately began to consume a leave. “How strange that a caterpillar would be alive this time of year. Shouldn’t you be a cocoon or butterfly by now?” Bertha shivered and pulled her brown cable-knit sweater closer to her body. The caterpillar began to eat one leave after another.
“Bertha? Shouldn’t you be doing your homework?” A grating voice came from inside the brick house.
“I’m coming!” Bertha glanced at the caterpillar once more that grabbed her backpack and walked inside to finish her Algebra homework.

Bertha woke up with a start. “I need to paint the trees white,” she thought. “I need to paint the trees white.” She fluffed her pillow and closed her eyes tight. “I need to paint the trees white!” Bertha put on her thick glasses and looked at the time. The red light-up numbers on her alarm clock read 12:00. “I should go back to bed,” Bertha quickly interrupted herself. “I HAVE to paint the trees white!” She stumbled out of her bed and tied the laces of her tennis shoes. She stealthily went to the garage and scanned the shelves. “White paint, I need white paint!” Towards the back of the holiday shelve, behind a box of Christmas ornaments was a can of white paint from when her dad painted the basement. She grabbed the half empty can of paint and a paintbrush, wrapped a scarf and coat around herself and walked outside. It was a full moon, the perfect October night, one of those nights that inspire Halloween stories. Bertha shivered, the frigid air cutting though her coat all the way to her bones. Something rustled in the tree.
“Hello?” Bertha’s voice came out low and shaky. She looked towards the tree, squinting in the moonlight. “The caterpillar?” Bertha looked at the tree closely and realized that the caterpillar had spun itself into a cocoon. Almost immediately Bertha was hit with the thought that had been running through her mind. “I have to paint the trees white!” She opened up the paint can, dipped the paintbrush into the white paint and brushed the first stoke. Again she was filled with the urgency to paint the trees white. Bertha flew into frenzy, trying to paint the tree as fast as was humanly possible. White paint was flecked everywhere, on Bertha’s clothes, on her hair, on the dying grass below the trees, it was absolutely everywhere! Bertha stopped for a second and tried to remove some of the thick, white paint that had gotten spattered all over her tortoise shell glasses when she spotted the cocoon that the caterpillar had spun. Small cracks were appearing in the silk, the caterpillar was breaking free!
“What?” Bertha was filled with confusion. Didn’t caterpillars take longer in their cocoon? What kind of moth or butterfly was this? “Only one tree left,” Bertha shifted her thoughts back to the only thing that mattered, the trees had to be white! The moon was brighter than ever, Bertha was able to see the moth emerge, its wings blood red.
A scream escaped her lips. The trees! They had to be white! Bertha began painting faster and faster; the moth shed its cocoon and began flying towards her. The moth finally reached Bertha and carefully landed on her.
“The trees!” Bertha cried hysterically. “The trees must be white!” A cry of anguish was heard as the Bertha fell to the ground, her arm sliding down, painting the last stroke. The moth burst into flames, ashes falling down, raining onto a lifeless Bertha.