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Standing from her, I grab her plate of food, then my empty one, taking both to the kitchen. Setting mine on the counter, I pull out the trash can and dump my butterfly's leftovers into the can. Setting her plate in the sink with mine, I grab all the extra food bowls and the garlic bread, throwing it away as well. Putting the can back under the sink, I rinse off the dishes with the sponge setting beside the faucet before putting them in the dishwasher, setting the water temperature to hot. Grabbing a spare rag from the drawer and a bottle of all purpose cleaner, I spray down the countertops and appliances, making quick work of wiping down all the surfaces I've touched.
Walking into the living area with my rag, I wipe down the door handle both inside and outside, I spray the remote, clicking off the tv before I clean it and drop it back onto the couch. Moving toward my now still butterfly, I carefully remove her glasses, using my rag to wipe down the frames before placing them back on her smiling face. I wipe down the table and chairs, even my butterfly's just to be safe. Moving back to the kitchen, I wipe off the spray bottle, opening the cabinet with my rag before using it to set the bottle inside and close the door. Lastly, I bring my rag to the washer, setting it to hot, just like the dishwasher, I use my rag to turn the knobs before tossing it in and bumping the lid shut with my elbow.
Taking my orange and blue paper butterfly from my pocket, I find my way back to my butterfly. Her fingers are still twitching on and off, but I know she's been dead for quite some time. Placing the paper butterfly on the table in front of her, I admire her a moment longer. Her performance was stunning like they all are. Perfectly executed. I'm pleasantly surprised that my first poisoning went so well, yet I didn't quite reach that level of excitement I've been looking for. This wasn't thrilling. My blood didn't pump in my veins, my heart didn't bang so hard against my ribs that it felt like it might burst. My hands didn't tremble with excitement, nor did I completely lose my breath. All of those things that used to happen when I first started my collection.
Backing from the room, I spin on my heel toward the door. Slipping my sneakers on, I throw on my jacket and gloves. Opening the door, I lock it from the inside before shutting the door. I pull the loft key from my pocket, already wiped clean and secured in an envelope, and drop in into the locked mailbox hanging by the door. Spinning away, I toss my hood over my ears to hide my head from the cold breeze and tuck my gloved fingers inside of my jacket pockets. I parked my car about five blocks from here, so I head in that direction.
I don't think I'm disappointed with tonight, but I'm not satisfied either. I tried something new, and despite all the signs pointing to it being what I've been lacking, it just fucking wasn't. I can't shake the hollowness in my gut, can't scratch the itch on my back. I'm missing something, but I can't figure out what.
I need more.
But more, what?
