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No bigger than the tip of my finger, their light blue gossamer wings flutter over the foliage growing along the chain-link fence.
Distinguished from its other blue brethren by its small thin tail, these little guys are also known for being one of the few species of butterflies that actually flock to humanity. Thriving in areas others would consider disturbed. Dangerous and inhabitable.
Most adult Tailed Blues lose their itty-bitty tails, including the one fluttering over the patch of weeds and white wildflowers before me. Pity, I think, wondering what awful predator would dare maim such a delicate, unobtrusive creature.
I cock my head from where I sit cross-legged a couple inches away, overgrown grass and weeds curling up around me. Sunlight beats gently down on my face through the thin canopy of trees stretching out over the barbed wire keeping me in, offering very little warmth.
But I’m not yet ready to go inside.
Winter will be here all too soon, which means no more butterflies, and even less yard time than I have already for five long months. Maybe only four if global warming is on our side, and spring arrives early, breathing new life into their summer home as it welcomes these fragile creatures back north.
Not like you’ll still be here, a voice singsongs, reminding me, prompting a smile to creep up my face.
No siree, I’ll have a garden of my own to tend to by then.
A loud buzzing sound echoes across the small yard, coming from the big gray building behind me, telling me time’s up.
Mumbling the quietest of curses, I slowly reach a hand out, approaching the butterfly still lingering by a patch of white petals. The others had dispersed at the sudden noise, leaving their brother all alone.
“Hey, little buddy,” I whisper under my breath, curling my finger inward, beckoning it to me.
The butterfly’s wings twitch a little harder, like it’s readying for lift-off, and I freeze, holding my breath.
Wetting my lips with my tongue, I watch, utterly enthralled, as the butterfly seems to debate with itself. Shifting side to side, wings catching on the slight breeze. Somewhere over my head, a crow caws. Leaves rustle. A car drives by beyond the trees, bass thumping rhythmically, before whooshing away.
Maybe it’s deaf, I think, as the butterfly doesn’t seem to be startled.
“That’s it,” I say near-soundlessly as the tip of one gossamer wing brushes my knuckle. “Come to Daddy.”
My mouth ticks up as the butterfly crawls up my first knuckle. Gently, slowly, so as not to disturb it, I bring my hand up so it’s at eye-level. Sunlight flickers over its pale blue wings, drawing out the faintest shade of gray mixed in.
“Gotcha,” I say, smiling.
And in a move too quick for the butterfly to sense, I bring my other hand up, and with well-practiced ease and precision, I pinch its thorax between my thumb and pointer finger, crushing his little itty-bitty heart, and snuffing the itty-bitty life out of him.
“It’s okay,” I coo quietly. “Quick and painless, right?” I admire its still body. The taut, yet slackened wings fanned out from its narrow, withered body.
Perfect, I think, pride puffing up my chest.
“Yo, James, pick up the pace before they yeet your ass back into the pit.”
I stiffen.
Fucking Marshall.
Snapping my head around, I bare my teeth at him as I emphasize, “It’s Saint James.”
Marshall knocks shoulders with Vinny, one of his little lackeys. “Nothin’ saint-like about this one.” They both snicker and curl their fingers over their head, making the sign of devil horns.
Seriously?
“That wasn’t what Vinny was saying when I was sucking his dick last week.”
They both freeze at my words. Vinny’s face turns beet red, and he sputters,“Wh-what? Fuck you, fag. I’d nev—”
“Daniels,” someone barks. “Kline. Get inside.”
Vinny glares down at the ground and shuffles away. Marshall gives me one last scathing once-over and spits on the ground.
