All About Butterflies

Prisoner

There are twenty tick marks on the wall, but I don’t know what that means because I’ve stopped counting. I used to count everything – floor tiles, cells, crumbs of bread, the hairs on my arms. Now I don’t count as much as think. I think about how the guards shot Robertson yesterday. Me and him, we were the last ones. Robertson reminded me of my kid brother. Now it’s just me.

I think about Mariposa. Her name means butterfly. Mariposa and me were gonna get married. She begged me not to sign up for this war.

I don’t know where I am, but I know it’s in a wooded area and I know that my guards all wish they were anywhere else. None of us want to be here, but here we all are.

I gave Mariposa a butterfly necklace before I left. I told her that every time I saw one I’d picture her face. But here, there aren’t any butterflies for me to see.

Fashion Designer

            I told Greg that if the spring catalog had any butterfly prints in it, not only would he be fired, I would ensure that he never got another job. Harsh, I know, but when you’re in my position you’ve got to be. I can’t have Jones & Keegan Designs’ reputation soiled like an old shirt.

            I hate butterflies. Not the creatures, they’re kind of cute depending on what color their wings are, but the pattern. Ralph Lauren did butterflies last season and  almost sunk. Butterflies are too childish and cliché to amount to true fashion. Let the amateurs over at Old Navy handle them. Or the Children’s Place. I hate butterflies, and I hate kids. Perfect.

Blind Person

            On Saturday mornings my granddaughter takes me to the park and describes the butterflies for me. I used to paint them, the soaring wings, the fuzzy abdomens. But the cataracts have taken their toll, I guess.

            My son’s a doctor. I put him through medical school with my paintings. I was never famous, but I was appreciated. My son says that in ten years they’ll have a surgery for cataracts so people like me don’t lose their vision. People say it so nicely, “lose vision.” I tell people I’m goddamn blind, a cripple, a burden to my family, and that’s the truth.

            My granddaughter is talking now, talking about a butterfly that has blue iridescent wings and thin, spiraling antennae. I wish I could mix that blue. I wish I could trace those antennae with my eyes. I wish I knew what my granddaughter looked like.

Child

            Mrs. Brown said that we could draw anything we wanted to so I drew a butterfly because my mom always talks about how beautiful they are and when I grow up I’m going to be a person who talks about butterflies at the zoo. I don’t know what that person’s called but it doesn’t matter because when I become one I’ll just call myself a butterfly person because that sounds nice. Mrs. Brown gave me a star on my paper and said my drawing looked “lovely” and she liked the pink wings and then she turned around and then I ate a Reeses’ when she wasn’t looking, even though the dentist says that if I get anymore cavities I will be wearing grandma teeth at age 14.

Dying Person

            I suspect that I am dying, but no one will tell me. When I mention the chemotherapy the doctor sadly smiles, a curve so quick you can barely catch it as it flashes by. When I talk about the cancer my wife looks sad and says she has to run to the supermarket.

            I suspect I’m like a butterfly. They live for only two weeks, barely enough time to lay their eggs before they perish. Maybe in human years two weeks in equivalent to forty-seven years, barely enough time to watch your children graduate from high school, to teach them how to be good people. I think everyone is just waiting for the moment they all know is coming, but for some reason the butterflies are unaware of how eclipsed their time here is, and no one wants to tell me.

Cat

            I think I’m expected to catch the mice. The cookies that the girl feeds me are mouse-shaped. My toys are fluffy balls resembling mice. My blankets are covered with images of scampering rodents.

            But after you’ve had butterfly, you can’t go back to rodent. It’s so base, so uncultured. I tasted delicacy, and to go back now would be impossible. I can’t go back. I won’t.

            The wings of a butterfly are light and sweet, like the spun sugar the girl sometimes sneaks me when she gets home from carnivals. The body is salty and gummy, perfectly balancing the wings. Mice just taste like dirt.

            And of course, now that I’ve tasted the best, cat food is out of the question.

Poet

            Oh, what tender wings

            Flutter softly by,

            If only I

could be so light and free!

G-d, that sucks. I wrote that? Jesus. I told myself it wouldn’t be a good idea to flip through my high school poetry notebook. G-d.

Shut-In

Back in school I lived in a room at the top of the house, but now I live in the basement. Strangely, the basement feels more like home to me than the upstairs room ever did. My parents decorated that room for my sister, butterfly wallpaper and butterfly carpeting and a bright pink ceiling. They couldn’t bring themselves to redo it after my sister was stillborn. Then I came along, and none of my friends ever laid eyes on my room. In the basement, I’ve hung up pictures of metal bands and action movies.

I know my parents are waiting for me to get a job, but the basement life is just too good. I mean, I pay only the water bill. I get a home-cooked meal every night and I can watch TV as much as I want without having to foot the cable expenses. I even ordered HBO; my parents are completely oblivious.

Sure, I don’t go out, because then my parents would know that I have plenty of cash saved up from gambling. I count cards, which I think is a pretty handy skill. I haven’t practiced in a while though, because the only card deck in this house is pink with butterflies.

Workaholic

            The picture frame on my desk is one that Elise made me when she was in kindergarten: popsicle sticks glued sloppily together with big foam butterfly stickers on the corners. In the frame is a picture of Cathy and Elise and me, on Elise’s sixth birthday. I gave her a doll that had pop-up wings on her back so she could be a butterfly or a human. She squealed with delight and hugged me.

            Elise turned eighteen last week, and I gave her a doll with a butterfly-print dress. My little girl always loved butterflies. She smiled uneasily at my gift but beamed when her mother handed her a diamond bracelet.

            I’m here late tonight because my case is tomorrow. This case could be the biggest one of my career. Elise is starring in a play, but I know she understands why I can’t be there.

            I gaze at the butterfly frame. She grew up so fast.

Alien

            I sit perfectly still as the monster crawls, agonizingly slowly, up my tentacle. It’s small, with curled antennae that sail up and orange, black-veined wings that would be pretty if they weren’t deadly. They briefed us on these things in the Academy. One sting and I will die.

            Funny, because in the Academy they described the stingers as yellow and black, not orange and black. Yellow and orange are in the same color family though, so I can see how the mistake would be made.

            Johnson went to radio for help, so I’m here all by myself with the dastardly creature, awaiting my doom.