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Reaching into my pocket, I pull out my lighter and light it, tucking it back away as I watch the candle flicker in my palm. Watching my butterfly squirm in her seat, listening to her muffled screams, I take out the gold paper butterfly from my pocket and bring it to the flame. This one they won't find, they won't know she's mine, but for some reason, that feels okay. Like I don't want them to know about this one. The gold paper starts to smoke, black stink rising before the little paper wing engulfs in flames. I toss it onto the carpet at my Vanessa carduiI's feet, watching the carpet quickly lick with fire as she raises her legs in an attempt to escape it.
Her efforts are futile, the flames quickly traveling up the sides of her chair and then her legs, the smell of burning fabric stinking up the room in dark blooms of smoke. I watch the red and orange swarm her body as she shakes her head, listen to the screams leaking through the fabric bound around her head while I stand there holding the candle in my palm. The flames quickly move onto the other objects, wicking like wildfire across the room. It's getting hard to breathe, but I can't get my feet to move, eyes stuck on my butterfly as she burns in her chair.
I can't feel the heat of the candle in my palm, but I know the glass is warm. The room is also getting unbearably warm. My butterfly stops moving from what I can see through the smoke and flames, so I turn, holding my candle up to the curtain at the edge of the room that has yet to start on fire. Watching it catch, I drop the candle to the floor and step from the room. Opening the front door, I simply step walk out, face immediately burning from the cold sting in the air. I shut the door behind me, eyes scanning the sleeping street before I start to walk back toward the park.
I know it won't be too long before the fire starts to consume the house, and the neighbors wake. I'm banking on someone to notice and call the fire department. This won't feel complete until I've laid eyes on them. I wander in the shadows of the trees, ears listening for those sirens as I wait. I don't know how long it takes, but they do eventually go rushing by, their sirens blaring, lights almost blinding in the dark. Unable to stop myself, my feet follow after them, needing to see things unfold now that they're here.
It hurts to breathe my heart is pounding so hard, an anxiousness making my hands shake. I feel angry despite doing exactly what I wanted. Livid even. It does nothing but confuse me and find my hands clenching in my pockets as I stomp toward my burning butterfly. I stop when the fire trucks come into view, shift my face off the side when two police cars go rushing past where I'm standing on the sidewalk. Part of me wants them to see me, wants them to ask if I saw anything, know what happened. I almost want to go tell them, a strange nagging in my chest urging to do just that even while my feet stay rooted to the spot by an unseen force telling me, they can't know. That they can never know. My mind is warring itself in a way I can't understand.
I did exactly what I wanted, everything is exactly how it should be, but instead of feeling satisfied, I'm denied once again. But this time, it's worse. I can't seem to catch my breath, my fisted hands are shaking so hard inside my pockets that my jacket zipper is jingling under my chin. Shuffling out of view the best I can on the sidewalk, I double over, grabbing my waist as I try to suck in a decent breath. My chest feels like it's caving in, a weight sitting right on my collarbone while my head spins. I don't know what's happening, and I don't know how to fix it as my lungs wheeze. A gloved hand slaps onto the fence I'm leaning against, my hunched body shuffling back toward to park, so my back is to the now raging fire. I almost think I'm having a heart attack with the way my chest is squeezing beneath my palm as I try to jog, back bent, so I'm curled in on myself.
Finally, making it to the park, I b-line for my car, my lungs slowly starting to gain their ability to suck in air. By the time I get there, I'm standing straight, my heart beating a tiny bit slower than before. I jerk my door open and fall into the driver's seat, resting my forehead on the steering wheel while I try to keep my breaths steady. My hands are still shaking, trembling in my lap while I squeeze my eyes shut. When I can finally sit up without my vision going blurry, I start my car and pull from the parking spot. I want nothing more than to go home right now. I don't know what this was supposed to prove, why I've reacted this way, but I'm scared to find out.
