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11
My Pyronia tithonus is striking tonight. Truly stunning with her cream scarf wrapped around her slender neck, the orange copper length of her hair tucked into her coat as the pearlescent grey of her eyes reflects the city line. We're on the top of her building, utilizing the rooftop sitting area for our date tonight. Everything so far has gone smoothly with my butterfly, easy even. Maybe even a little.. bland? Possibly boring? I'm not sure if that has to do with my butterfly herself or if it's me.
I'm a collector by nature. There's an unspoken rule that as a collector, you never stop trying to find the newest and best to add to your existing pretties, and you most certainly don't stop collecting. I have no plans to stop; I think I just need some kind of excitement. Extra spice, maybe? My eyes find the copper glow of my butterfly's hair. I feel bad for my Pyronia tithonus. She's going to think she's the problem here when really, I've just found myself in quite the funk.
She's currently playing her guitar, quietly humming along with it as she shows me her newest song. She doesn't actually sing, all of her work is instrumental, and I have to say, she's very talented. She wouldn't be mine if she wasn't, though, would she? She's a far cry from my latest addition, who had the brains of a walnut. Although her show was spectacular, hands down my favorite, I knew I needed a real A+, top of the class kind of butterfly to brighten the box a bit after that one. And that's exactly what I found too.
As I sit here, listening to her play, I realize my hands are cold despite the fairly thick leather gloves I'm wearing. My butterfly isn't even wearing any, her fingers plucking away at the strings of her guitar like she doesn't feel the cold. But I know she must because her cheeks are flushed a pretty shade of baby pink that makes the few freckles on her nose stand out. I truly hate cold weather. Even more so when it's windy. And here we are, on the top of this building where it is both cold and windy. I really didn't think this date through.
"How'd you like it?"
I almost jump at her voice, blinking to clear my head. I truly am bored if I'm getting lost inside my head like that. "I loved it." I smile at the pleased expression on her face, watching as she sets the guitar off to the side. "You're very talented, Butterfly."
She shrugs, sticking her hands between her thighs. So her fingers were cold then. "I'm okay. I need to practice some more to be where I'd like to be."
She's either extremely driven, or her parent's pushed their own issues onto her to make her think she could always be better. Do better. Some people really shouldn't have kids. What's wrong with not being the best all the time? Literally nothing. In fact, I'd like to think that all of us losers down here are the backbone of the talented. Without us, you'd never know what the true scale of talent was; we're here to be grand examples of what the bottom tier looks like to compare.
"...Professor Angus said that he might be able to get me a spot in his upper musical arts class next semester."
Scrubbing my hand over my brow, I nod at her. I'm not sure how long she's been talking because I got lost in my thoughts once again. What was she talking about? Next semester? Maybe I should tell her she doesn't have to worry about next semester because I plan to rip her wings off. That'd definitely make things more interesting, or least for me. "That would be great."
On a whim, I stand and stretch my hand out toward her. "Have you seen the giant turkey they've set up in the park? I think you can see it from here."
She shakes her head, some of her hair pulling from where it's stuffed in her scarf. "No! I didn't know there was one up."
She takes my hand, and I link our fingers, walking with her toward the iron guard railing. Pointing one gloved finger toward the park, I gesture toward the brightly lit up turkey in the distance. Unclasping our hands, I pat my back pocket, intent to pull out a cigarette before I remember I didn't bring them. Well fuck. My butterfly is talking again, but I'm not listening. What's that show with the trombone sound when all the adults talk? Charlie Brown? That's all I hear coming from her mouth. Wah Wah Wah.
I'm nodding one moment and then grabbing her arm and pushing her between her shoulder blades the next. It takes me a second to realize I just shoved her over the railing, looking over the edge at her head, spattered over the sidewalk. Well, fuck again. I hadn't planned that. I actually hadn't planned on adding her to my collection for a few weeks yet. I move my face back as a few people run up to her, a woman already screaming something I can barely hear from the eight-story building. Well, butterfly, you may have bored me to death, or yourself to death, but I have to say you're fucking exquisite.
And she is, with her arms bent and broken in V's shaped like wings, the copper of her hair haloed by a spray of dark red. She's prettier than I could have imagined.
She also doesn't have a butterfly.
Fuck.
Looking around the rooftop, I don't see anything I can even attempt to make one with either. Scrubbing my head with annoyance, I ponder my options. I could leave her without a butterfly, but then no one would know she was mine. Or I could go back down to her apartment and get some paper, hope the cops don't show up before I'm done, and drop it on her. That could work. Mind made, my feet are already moving toward the rooftop staircase. If I'm quick, I can be in and out of her place within three minutes. She only lives a few floors down, and I already know she left her door unlocked for us to get in later, so it shouldn't be difficult.
Opening the doorway to her landing, I accidentally run straight into an older woman carrying what looks like groceries. Grabbing her arms to steady her, I politely shift her out of my way. "I'm sorry I didn't see you there."
Her freckled hand waves at me, the blue knitted ball on the top of her hat swaying with her shaking head. "Oh, you're fine, honey. Did you just come from the rooftop? It's far too cold to be spending too much time out there."
I nod at her, shifting around her toward my butterfly's door a few doors down on the left. "I think I'll be fine. Thanks for the concern."
Quickly walking toward my butterfly's place, I open the door and slip inside. I'm not wildly familiar with her place, but I know she has to have some kind of paper somewhere. Going toward the metal framed desk in her small living area, I dig around until I find some printer paper. It's thin and extremely boring, but much to my annoyance, it'll have to do. As I'm about to leave, I notice a spread of music sheets.
How perfectly poetic that would be, a butterfly made from her own music. Stuffing the plain butterfly into my pocket, I reach for one of the music sheets and fold that into a small little butterfly instead. The symbolism of it almost makes this drab night exciting. Stepping out of her apartment, I head toward the elevator. I know I need to hurry, I'm sure the police have already been called to the scene, and if they aren't there yet, they will be soon. I hate to admit that the thought of being so near to them does seem somewhat exciting. At least compared to how things have been going lately. A close run in might be just what I need to spice things up.
Pressing the button for the main lobby, I watch the doors close in front of me. Fuck. I should have thought to throw her guitar over after her. That would have made the whole music theme really hit. See, this is why I plan this shit and don't just do things all willy nilly. This could have been a thousand times better, and here I am, throwing my butterfly from her own rooftop because I've suddenly sprung up a case of boredom. The elevator doors open, and I walk through the lobby and out the doors, listening for sirens. I don't hear any, but I can already see the red and blue flashing from the adjacent street.
Well, fuck again. Pulling my jacket up higher around my face, I tuck my gloved hands into my pockets and walk toward the lights. It's going to be more difficult to get to my butterfly now. Each step has my heart pounding a little harder against my rib cage, that familiar anticipation making my skin prickle. Rounding the corner, I scan the scene. There are two patrol cars parked on the edge of the street, one officer directing traffic while three others are working to mark the area off from other pedestrians. Well, fuck again, again. There's also an ambulance, but it looks like the medics are just standing around talking to each other. It's not like they could do much though, my butterfly's face has been permanently etched into the cement.
Testing my luck, I continue to walk down the sidewalk. I'm not the only person here; there are others gathering around, whispering behind their hands. Some are even trying to take pictures or videos. My Pyronia tithonus has caused quite the commotion I see. But they won't even know she's mine if I don't get this fucking paper butterfly near her. Squeezing past two women who are crying in shock, I sneak as close as I can to the tape surrounding my butterfly. Even if I tried to throw it from here, I don't think it would make it, not to mention everyone would see me throwing it. Grinding my teeth at my own stupidity for being so unorganized, I watch the officers as they talk to one another.
I could put the butterfly on one of them.
It would be risky, but they'd find it later and know. Know she was one of mine.
Know that I was there, watching them.
