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7
I wasn't expecting this. I came out tonight to see my butterfly, and what do I find? My Celastrina argiolus blushing behind her napkin over the piece of shit she's on a date with. I almost didn't notice her, all gussied up with her curled hair and red lips; surely, my butterfly wouldn't be out here with someone else. Not my butterfly. But it was her I was looking at through the restaurant window, smiling at some pathetic wall street looking trash no less.
My eyes have been narrowed on the pale blue of his button-up since I sat down at my own table to watch them. Every second that ticks by is gasoline thrown onto my inner rage. Every little giggle that slips past her nude lips, every flutter of her lashes, every little touch. They should all be mine, and I have to sit here and watch my butterfly be soiled by this filth. I'll admit that when I first sat down at my table, I was naïve enough to think this might be some kind of friendly exchange, not an actual date. How stupid of me.
"Has someone come to help you yet?"
I jerk my attention from the happy couple to the waitress standing by my table, pen at the ready like she already knows the answer to her question. Grabbing the menu from the table, I hand it out to her, eyes briefly landing on my butterfly as her fingers pinch around the laminated bi-fold. "Not yet. Can I get a rare steak and sweet tea?"
She smiles, tucking the menu under her arm as she writes. I might've found her pretty any other night with the dimple in her cheek, and the mess of coppery hair piled on top of her head. Unfortunately for her, I have my hands full with my naughty butterfly tonight. "Sure thing. Do you want any sides? Or just the steak tonight?"
"Just the steak."
She says something, but my attention is already across the room, so I don't hear it. I doubt my butterfly realizes that everyone can see her dates hand rubbing along her thigh beneath the table or that when she uncrosses her legs, her navy blue panties flash the entire fucking room. All of her attention is on the prick she's with. They seem far more familiar than I care to admit, like this isn't the first date they've been on. I hate it. I hate how happy my butterfly looks. I hate how she's oblivious to everything but him. She hasn't once looked my way, never even felt my presence. It's annoying and insulting.
I almost stand up, hands trembling with rage as they grip the edge of the table to stand, the table cloth wrinkling in my palms, but my waitress sneaks up on me to drop my glass of sweet tea in front of me. Forcing myself to sit back in my chair once more, I thank her retreating back. Despite how much it kills me to see my butterfly flap her wings for someone else, I can't do anything about it. Not yet. Not here. I wasn't planning on adding Celastrina argiolus to my collection just yet, I wanted to spend more time with her first, but she's made the decision for me with this little escapade of hers. She can pretend she's not mine all she wants, but she can't hide from the facts any longer.
My eyes barely leave them as my steak and utensils are placed in front of me, my lips twisting into a fake smile for my waitress. I nod in acknowledgment to whatever she says, hand closing around the napkin holding my silverware. Shaking it out, I peel my eyes from the disaster playing out before me and grab the steak knife. Shifting a wary glance around the room, I use the knife to tear my napkin, using my hands to rip it the rest of the way when it catches so that I have two separate pieces. Tucking one of the pieces into my jacket pocket, I tear the remaining piece in half again so that I have two squares. I shove one of the fabric squares into my pocket with the other, eyes finding my butterfly as I fold my remaining square into a butterfly.
It's an ugly pale cream with ripped, frayed edges; nothing but garbage compared to the one I would have made her if she hadn't decided to up our timeline. I hate it. But not nearly as much as I hate my butterfly's date. I watch as they both stand from their table, eyes burning when their fingers link while walking toward the exit. Standing up shortly after them, I reach into my denim pocket to toss cash onto my table, watching the back of my butterfly's head as they walk out of the door. I didn't touch my steak, but I didn't actually want it. I snatch the steak knife from the table before I leave, tucking it away inside of my jacket as I make my way out of the restaurant. Stepping onto the sidewalk, I pause, unsure where they are.
Lucky for me, they aren't too far ahead, my butterfly's laugh drifting over all the other noises what draws my eyes their way. Such a great time she's having. Such a wonderful night for them both. I can't fucking stand it. I feel like I've been cheated of my prize. I have a specific way I like to do things, a way that ensures I get my butterfly in perfect condition for my collection. This is not fucking it. Each step I take is slightly faster than the last, my heart thumping against my ribs an angry rhythm. All I can see is my butterfly, and the sight isn't nearly as sweet as it should be.
Just seeing the way her cheeks turn pink when her date leans to whisper in my ear has me fighting the urge to push my way through the crowd and yank her from him. The fact that she actually looks happy, that she sounds happy, grates on my nerves like nothing else. There's a nagging in the back of my skull that tells me it might not just because she's my fucking butterfly; that maybe the twisting in my gut might be closer to jealousy than rage. Shoving my hands in my pockets, my fingers wrap around the handle of the steak knife, effectively cooling my racing mind. No. I'm not jealous; that’s impossible. I don't care about frivolous nonsense like relationships. At least that's what I tell myself as the pit in my stomach grows, watching my butterfly flutter in front of me.
They're getting farther from the main foot traffic, making it harder for me to use the passing bodies as coverage. The more I take in our surroundings and off of my butterfly, I realize we are actually going in the direction of the college bars. Of course, this trash goes to the same school as my butterfly; it makes sense now why they're so familiar with each other. They probably have some of the same classes, maybe even share the same dorm. How cute of them, turning their pathetic little lives into some kind of romance novel. A rom-com, no doubt, because this fucker is nothing but a joke.
I look away from them, eyes dropping to the old brick road we're walking along. It circles the outskirts of the campus, red brick worn down by time that adds a certain charm to the place I've always liked. I'm lucky that it's the weekend, and this area gets busy; that and the cloak of the night hiding me are the only things preventing me from sticking out like a sore thumb. I have no fucking plan for this, and I always have a plan. I always know what I'm going to do weeks in advance. I should just let it go, force myself to go home, and stick to the plan. But I know I can't do that. I wouldn't be able to; the thought of her betrayal would plague my every waking thought just as it's doing now and poison our connection.
I look up just in time to see my butterfly hurry into an alleyway pulled by her frat boy in a giggling huff. I don't have to be a genius to know why they're sneaking off. That douche hasn't been able to keep his hands off of my butterfly all night, he probably couldn't wait a second longer to taste what's mine. I already know my butterfly tastes as sweet as honey, and her skin is softer than Egyptian silk. She's beautiful with her tanned skin and chocolate eyes. She's a ruby in a bin full of emeralds, rich and warm. Like all the rest before her, I knew she was meant to be mine the second I saw her. She was wearing a long dress, the softest, palest blue I'd ever seen. My beautiful Celastrina argiolus fluttering her wings, begging to be one of my treasures.
I slowly pass the alley way they went down, turning my face to find them almost hidden from sight. If I wasn't specifically looking, I wouldn't have seen them halfway down it and engulfed in shadow. I pause, leaning my back against the building behind me while pulling my phone from my back pocket. I pretend to text as a group of people pass, quickly glancing to make sure no one is looking before diving into the dark myself.
Tucking my phone away, my fingers find the handle of my knife once more. My sneakers are almost silent on the pavement under my feet, my eyes blinking to adjust to the darkness as I creep toward the hushed tones farther down the alley. I almost can't hear them over the pounding in my ears, my heart losing it when I realize I'm not hearing whispers but soft moans. My fingers tighten painfully on the handle in my hand, pulling it from my pocket as I move to silently stand behind the man rubbing the dust from my butterfly.
With angry, trembling fingers, I slam my knife into the side of his neck. His filthy hands leave my butterfly, slapping uselessly at his neck while I pull it out and shove him out of my way. My butterfly doesn't even see me, her hands reaching for him in confusion. They really chose the best spot for this because it's so dark she can't even tell what's going on less than a foot from her face. Reaching forward, I grip her soft curls and yank her away from the man she's trying to speak to. A short startled scream escapes her kiss swollen lips, but I quickly silence it by smacking her head against the building behind her while releasing her hair.
Poor thing is so confused she's not even fighting me, barely even aware of me it would seem, as her arms raise to cradle her bleeding head. The man at my feet is still gurgling but otherwise disposed of. This feels rather uneventful after all that angry buildup, and that makes me even more angry. How dare he tarnish my butterfly and then give up so easily. How dare she allow such pathetic waste of human to stroke her wings. My arm snaps out to grip her cheeks in my palm, squeezing as hard as I can while making her look at me.
It's so dark I can't see the color of her eyes, but I know the chocolate is melting, can feel her tears running along my fingers. I can vaguely see her blinking up at me, small whimpers leaving her pinched lips. She's not even fighting me, just crying. "I'm disappointed in you."
She must recognize my voice because her hands latch onto me, her nails scraping against the material of my jacket as she finally gives me some kind of reaction that isn't pathetic. "What the fuck is wrong with you! What did you do to Daniel? Daniel! Dan..."
I bash her head back against the building once again, effectively silencing her once more. Her hands try to yank my arm down, but I don't budge. I've done this many fucking times, her weak little arms aren’t going to move mine anytime soon. "None of that now."
I smash her head once more when she starts to wiggle again, small whimpers leaving her lips. Her body sags just a bit like she's getting close to losing consciousness, and I lightly shake her face. "Did you know that butterflies have scales on their wings?" I shake her head no in my palm, answering my question for her as she blinks at me, her knees trying to buckle. "Well, they do. And do you know what happens when people touch their wings?" I shake her head again, tutting at her. "You're kind of stupid, do you know that?" I make her nod, smiling to myself. "Their scales get wiped away when you touch them. Their already thin wings become weakened and more prone to tears and damage. Just like yours are now."
I can tell she's about to pass out on me, her eyes barely open now. Fucking pathetic. She'll be added to my collection like the rest, but her box will be shrouded with disappointment. She had so much fucking potential. I angrily slam my steak knife into her gut, her droopy eyes suddenly wide awake with shock as her mouth creates a perfect "O". I drag it up to the bottom of her rib cage then step back, pulling it with me. She slides down the building at her back, arms aimlessly clutching at her waist as she drops to the ground.
Looking at her tangled with her douche lover isn't the ending I wanted, and I angrily toss my makeshift napkin butterfly onto their limp bodies. How fucking disappointing. Taking one of the spare napkin pieces from my pocket, I scrub the knife's handle down before throwing it down next to them. Looking down at myself, I can't even see if I have blood on me or not; good thing it's dark. I'll just have to avoid the lighted areas on my way home, I guess. I'm wearing dark denim and a black jacket, or this may have been an issue. It's just a reminder that I didn't plan this, and I feel myself getting annoyed over it all over again.
Eyes dropping to my butterfly, I shake my head. For the first time in a very long time, I don't feel even the tiniest bit satisfied with the bloodshed. Walking toward the end of the alley and the main road, I listen for anyone walking my way before stepping out onto the sidewalk. I won't let this happen again. I won't let myself feel this again, but that doesn’t help me right fucking now. Hidden in my pockets, my hands won’t stop shaking. My heart is still angrily pounding against my ribs, waiting for the grand finale that won’t happen. I can’t leave myself like this without risking having a complete fucking blowout.
My shoulder bumps against someone as I turn the corner, but I don’t bother to apologise. I’m not sorry, if anything, I wish I’d pushed them hard enough to get struck by oncoming traffic. Seeing their face stuck to the grill of a car might have helped settle my racing lungs. I need fucking something to quell the manic need to feel satisfied. I need someone. But not just anyone, I need someone who can handle my very specific set of needs for the night, and the more I think about it, I think I have the perfect little weirdo for the job.
