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His unintelligible groaning woke her from a particularly beautiful dream; one filled with butterflies in a garden. The lithe creatures pirouetted through the air while turning cartwheels and making somersaults. The smile that had tugged at her lips faded slowly as her brain rehashed the image, and she remembered suddenly that she had been a butterfly too. She had grown wings, clear ones that shone iridescent in the waterfalls of sunlight cascading in from-- oh. She realized it wasn’t a garden she found herself in. It was a glass cage, and the poor lepidopterans weren’t doing aerial ballet. They were bouncing off of the sides of the oppressive dome, attempting to reach the sunshine and fresh air. She flew up to stop them-- but her voice only came out in a whisper. Reaching out to one, she pulled its wing as gently as she could. It shattered in her hand with the crackle of ruined crystal. She had thought the pained moans were those of the broken insect until her surroundings came back into view with regained consciousness.
With a sigh, she shrugged on an oversized jacket laying forgotten on the bedroom floor. It smelled of liquor and stale cologne. She padded barefoot through the halls, following the distressed utterances. It wasn’t long before she saw him curled in the middle of the couch, holding his head. A half-finished plate of food sat on the coffee table in front of him; ants already starting to claim the bounty. She released another breath and sat down on the floor, reaching out a tentative hand. Before she could make contact, he struck, clutching her wrist with all the poise and quickness of a cobra.
“Don’t-- touch-- me.”
Wincing, she pulled herself out of his grip and apologized, tears warming her bottom lashes. She scooted back, out of reach, and collected her mood before trying another avenue of comfort.
“Are you okay, Derek?”
His head shot up, eyes red-rimmed and squinted in anger.
“No, Megan, I’m not fucking okay. Is that why you came in here? To make me feel worse about feeling this way? I’ve heard enough from you. Go back to sleep; it’s what you do best.”
Megan’s nose started running, but she refused to sniffle. Any sign that she was upset would further agitate him. She brought the sleeve of the jacket up to her nose and wiped it away instead, making a mental note to throw it in the laundry before he noticed the stain.
“I was worried about you.”
Derek snorted, sitting up straight.
“Right. You’re just goddamn nosy.”
A cry threatened to burst from her lungs, but Megan tempered it.
“Have you looked into ther--”
The words died in her throat as she dodged a projectile launched her way. The festering, unwanted meal scattered across the living room, and the plate itself exploded against the back wall. Megan’s back stiffened and she held her breath. Derek, fuming, grabbed at his hair and tugged it in frustration.
“I told you I wasn’t doing that. I don’t want to be a medicated zombie like you. Now go the fuck away.”
The arrow of his words struck where the thrown china was unable to. Megan nodded and stood, taking in the scene before her. Derek was settling back down-- spittle speckling his chin from his outburst and clothes ragged from years of use.
And I’m the zombie?
She immediately recoiled from the thought as if she had said it out loud. Before her mouth did betray her, Megan walked purposefully back the way she came; stopping in their shared bathroom. She opened the medicine cabinet and grabbed her nighttime prescription. Pausing, she looked at the other bottles littering the shelves. She held out the bottom of her pilfered jacket and knocked the rest off into the waiting basin she had crafted from it. When Megan sat back down in bed, she opened one after the next and poured all of the contents on her tongue, dry-swallowing the lot. A tear escaped one eye, and she hoped it had been a lethal dose. With her last wakeful breath, she made a promise to the butterflies.
I’ll save you, too.