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I get lost in the hue, the rich berry of it painting her pillow with every shake of her little head. Her golden wings are losing their dust as she thrashes below my hips, the soft, weak edges tearing as they get stained with red. She's so, so beautiful. More beautiful than I thought she could ever be. Her screams are muffled through the bind, and I almost reach forward, fingers curling into my palm above her face to stop myself. Not that anyone would hear her over the music downstairs, but that's too risky.
Crystal clear tears are leaking down her cheeks, deep water pools of seafoam pleading to a lost cause as she stares up at me, her brows pinched to match the frown of her crying lips. Uncurling my hand, I use a single fingertip to wipe one of her tears away, the wet drop stirring a whirlwind in my gut as I bring the lone drop to my lips and lick the salt away. Only spending another moment to watch her, I reach back into my pocket and pull out a small paper butterfly.
Its yellow edges are crinkled from being stuffed away, but it's okay. It’s just like my perfect little butterfly. I don't smooth out the edges, I let it stay rumbled as I lay it on my butterfly's chest; her heavesof terror making its wings lightly flap. I stare at the little piece of paper, watch its wings fly along her skin. When my little butterfly's eyes become droopy, I move my attention to her pretty little face, swallowing as her body twitches beneath me in a last ditch effort to save itself. The paper butterfly wings flap one last time as she takes one last shaking, shallow breath.
That’s always my favorite part; those last few moments before they die. Their body has so much to say in those last few seconds, and I savor every silent word, store every painful whisper inside my heart, and watch the light leave behind nothing but a shell to rot.
Reluctantly shifting off of her, I wipe the blood from the tip of my knife onto her stained pillowcase, then carefully tuck it away as I brush off my own clothing. Doubling and triple checking for any stray droplets of blood, I take the time needed to make sure I'm clean. Satisfied, I look down at my beautiful butterfly. Reaching out, I run my hand over her cheek in a whisper of a touch that burns the very tips of my fingers. Closing my eyes to stop myself from staying any longer, I burn her image into my memory, press all of her into that bottle of memories, then slip out of her room and into the hall before quietly clicking the door shut behind me. Taking a shallow breath, I retreat back down into the main house, grabbing a stray drink off a table as I pass. Inserting myself into a nearby group, I fake a laugh as someone tells a joke I missed the beginning of, flawlessly immersing myself back into the fray like I never left.
Hours tick by as I continue to mingle, the shaking of my fingers lessening as my high slips away with the hands of the clock. The fallout gets worse every time, the high never lasting quite as long as the last. A fact I'm finding both annoying and alarming. It’s just after two AM, my arm poised back as I play beer pong, when a bone chilling shrieking leaks down the stairs and into the party. I crunch the plastic ball between my fingers as confused chaos ensues, girls screaming from the stairs that my butterfly is dead. I smile into my cup, using it to hide the expression stretching across my cheeks as I revel in my secret for the briefest of moments.
Dropping my cup in feigned panic, I let a girl next to me grab my arm, her cries burying inside my chest as she tugs us toward the exit, mascara streaking down her cheeks from her tears. Following the dispersing crowds, we stand outside the frat house.Blue and red lights blinkacross the lawn as police try to calm the panicking students, EMTs rushing past people to get inside the house. There's already a media van here, a pretty reporter droning on about the murder. She's looking through the crowd to find a student to talk to, get the inside scoop, so I carefully extract my arm from the tight grip it’s in and use the scattering party goers as a cover to slip off and out of sight before I get myself caught up in it.
My hands tuck into my pockets as I walk back to the car I parked down the street, the shadows of the night hiding the smile I let out now that I'm alone. My little butterfly will be all over the news in the morning, and I have my tv set to record.
