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Ripping my eyes off of her back, I scan the path, my feet almost losing grip with the jolt that races along my spine. We're almost to the final stretch, my little butterfly's pace starting to slow as she relaxes a bit. I choke down the knot in my tightening throat, taking a quick look behind my back as we get swallowed up by more trees, the path becoming more and more secluded with every step that's slapped onto the pavement.
I've thought about this so many times that it almost feels surreal to finally be here, in this moment. The anticipation has been gnawing at my neck like a rabid dog, ripping and tearing into my will to be patient from the second my eyes landed on my butterfly's ebony wings. The sweat slicking down my nape, dripping between my shoulder blades, scrapes along the goosebumps lining my skin. I’m so close, that if I wanted, I could reach out and run my fingertips along the soft fabric of my Limenitis camilla's shirt. My lips part as I mentally count down the seconds, knowing exactly how many steps it'll take us to get to a very specific curve in the path.
Four Mississippi.
The pounding in my chest is almost painful; my feet shadowing my butterfly’s perfectly.
Three Mississippi.
I can smell that intoxicating sweet scent of her hair, almost feel the dark strands as they wave back toward my face.
Two Mississippi.
My gaze leaves her for just a fraction of a moment, flickering between her ebony wings and the weeping willow we're coming up to.
One Mississippi.
My fingers grace along the back of her head, whispering through the strands of her hair, my fingertips burning against the soft silk before sinking into her scalp. My leg comes forward with hers, looping around the front of her shin while my elbow and hand shove her head forward. Her hair turns violent, almost slicing my fingers as she catapults toward the pavement, ebony strands burning from my palm as her face meets the ground with a wet slap and crunch that mutes the startled yelp that cried from her lips.
She slides forward on the pavement, body momentarily scrunching like an accordion as her arms, hands, and face scratch along the course ground; an earbud flying from her ear to skip and roll off the path. Almost heaving, I step over her moaning, writhing form and purposefully step onto a hand that's blindly searching the ground by her head. There's already a small splattering of blood painted across the pavement from her initial hit; abstract art spread around to accentuate the soft fluttering of her dark wings. It's so beautiful I almost get lost in it, but her low groan draws my attention back to the task at hand, and I tug my fingerless gloves from my pocket, slipping them on as I watch her slowly wiggle under me.
I bend over, bring the end of her long, tangled ponytail to my face, and take a deep breath, savoring the floral beauty until I'm forced to exhale. My tongue comes out to wet my lips as I wind it around my fist, slowly wrapping it around and around and around until it's so tight I almost can't feel my fingers. Digging into the hair at the base of the elastic, I tilt my butterfly’s face up off the pavement to admire the red and brown mixed over her beautiful features. She's making small little noises, eyes trying to fight their way open.
Fuck, I want to kiss her, taste the dirt clinging to her cheeks, lick the blood from her teeth. But this isn't about my selfish wants this time; this is all about my butterfly. I've thought long and hard about this, spent nights sweating in my sheets over the images. Today, my butterfly will finally be flawless. She will finally be perfect.
Just as her eyes flutter open under my gaze, I slam her face back into the ground, watch her nose crunch, and lips split even more. More blood sprays along the ground, and I force myself to move my face from the prime viewing position to hover over her back. I want to see everything, but I can't risk getting overly dirty. Lifting her face, I slam it back down again, eyes fixed on the ground, frantically shifting over the pavement to watch every spray and drop turn black where it lands.
Over and over and over, I slam her head down, the blood starting to pool around her threatening to stain the tips of my sneakers as it creeps close. Her chest stopped moving long ago; her fingers are no longer scratching at the ground, legs no longer quivering between mine. She hasn’t made any sounds in a long while, but I couldn’t help but keep using her as my paintbrush, to stamp her into the pavement with pretty shades of red.
My hands are shaking and my arms tired when I finally stop. I take my time unwrapping her ebony locks, my fingers tinted a light purple, the edges of my knuckles etched with red lines from being pinched for so long. I step back toward her legs before the red ripples surrounding her can reach me, lips parting as I stare down at what can only be described as absolute perfection.
My butterfly’s arms are fanned out from her body, one bent oddly toward herself while the other reaches past her head, palm up. Her face is flat against the pavement, perfectly fitted to every bump and ripple in the course ground, the blood sprayed around her almost reminiscent of a pair of torn and mangled wings. I can't help the laugh that bubbles up from me, my hand coming up to cover my mouth as I smile down at her.
I knew she'd be nothing short of stunning.
I just knew it.
It takes me a few tries to unzip the pocket on my joggers, my hands trembling as I pull out the black and white origami butterfly I’d made last night for her. I was careful when tucking it into my pocket this time; I wanted its wings to be as perfect as my butterfly. Holding it up, I cover her head from my view, the red wings stroking lovingly along the pavement wrapped around the small piece of paper. Stunning. Lifting my foot over her, I step off to the side, careful not to step into the growing murky puddle that's seeping into her clothes. I bend and carefully place the butterfly in her palm, skimming my fingertips along her skin as I stand.
Pulling my eyes from her, I look down at my clothes, hands brushing over my shirt as I feel for wetness. A small amount of red stains my fingertips when I lift them for inspection, but I shrug it off. My clothes and shoes are all black, so it's virtually impossible to see it. As long as I don't touch anything, people will just assume I'm sweaty from my run. Slowly backing away, I admire the way the early sun's rays glimmer through the weeping willow’s branches, how the shadows twist over my butterfly’s still form.
I know I need to get back to my run, that I have maybe twenty minutes before the other routine runners come this way, but I wish I could stay all day. I wish I could sit and listen to Shakira playing from her earbud that’s hidden in the grass and watch the blood dry and crust along the edges of her smooth skin. It's truly unfair how little time I get with my butterflies. Turning away, I start to run once more. My eyes fix on the path, forcing my body to move and not turn back.
Picking up my pace, my knees almost knock together with every step that brings me closer to the end of the path. I can already feel the heat of my skin turning cold now that my butterfly is left behind. I have to remind myself that they may only be mine for a short time face to face, but they live forever in my collection. And my Limenitis camilla will look immaculate hanging next to all the others, her dusty wings frayed along the edges and cracked down the middle.
Like anyone who collects things, though, I'm never quite satisfied with what I have. I can already feel the need to start searching for my newest find, feel the tug in my chest urging me for more. But I know that can wait, I need to let my butterfly rest in her box for a bit before I move onto my next pretty. She deserves the attention after such a beautiful performance.
I break from the tree line, curving toward the east park gate. Out of breath, I lean over and palm my knees once I get to the sidewalk, eyes briefly flicking to the side as a man comes to stand near the bus stop with me.
"Must have been a good run."
I huff at his remark, a smirk twisting my lips as I straighten and watch the bus pull in front of us. "It was perfect."
Leaning my head back, I close my eyes as I listen to the priest across the grass. I can't actually hear what he's saying, but I can hear the faint mumblings of words
that drift between the space between us. Thankfully, they're behind me so I can sit here unseen, hidden with my back resting against Nana's tombstone. No one would care if they did see me here. People often visit the dead, but I'd prefer to just not be seen. I don't know exactly why I even come here. I personally don't even believe Nana is still here, floating around in this lonely graveyard waiting for me to prattle on about my latest issue. I don't know where she is, if she even is anywhere, but it's not here. Still, something about being close to something that belongs to her, where I'd last seen her, is comforting to me, I guess.
Opening my eyes, I stare out at the orange and purple billowing in the sky, pink clouds floating along the horizon as the sun sets. The day might be ending for most, but it's just beginning for me. I've always been a night owl, always preferred the chaotic bustle that comes after dark over the daylight traffic. There's something peaceful about being busy while others sleep.
