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Ever since he was a child, he had a strange and unusual connection to butterflies. An almost sadistic fascination with them. He would often waltz down to the garden and let the butterflies fly all around him, before one delicately landed on the back of his hand. He’d gaze at it for a while, mesmerised by the intricate patterns on their wings, before he was met with an overwhelming urge to rip their wings from their tiny little bodies.
Today was different than no other. The wings were pulled, and the bug stumbled helplessly before falling from his hand to the ground.
He walked back to his room, and on the walls were thousands upon thousands of butterfly wings. He had almost run out of space, but he wouldn’t stop collecting. Ever since that day, he’s been unable to stop.
Searching for something, something indescribable.
The vision of the bodies floating in the sky, floating like a butterfly. Suspended, motionless, the only movement was the drops of blood, drip, drip, dripping down onto the ground, onto him. Covering him with the stench of death.
That’s the day she found him. Pathetic looking thing, he was. Unable to speak, or rather, he knew exactly how, but something weighed heavy on his mind, something even he was afraid of. And so he remained quiet, as he moved forward through the hall, a trail of blood not his own leaving behind crimson footprints. A pain to clean up. But she would do it, for him.
By now he had reached the desk. She walked around and to his surprise, she wrapped a towel around him and embraced him closely. His face was hidden, but she could hear him sniffle through the fabric.
He probably had no one to care for him, no one to hold him close. Had anyone even held him close? Had he been shown love? Such a precious child brought into this world, trying to survive, to stay safe, now his only solace is here. No.
No. It couldn’t be here. What would I know, how to care for a child? I had never held one at my breast. Never pained through the labours. No, none of that.
But I guess I know how he feels, a life of no love. Perhaps I can be of comfort in the sameness that we share. Perhaps that is more real than a family, more real than one who would leave a child to walk like this.
He was afraid of the water. His hands were covered in burns. A body that had known fire, but never warmth, only the unbearable heat as it tore away at his once delicate skin.
His back was a mess too, as if he had been thrown into the flames, cast away and never to return. Was he meant to die?
He winced as I gently dabbed a cloth on his shoulders, making a small sound. Ah, so he can talk. He's just afraid. I wanted to ask. I wanted to pry about what he has been through, how he ended up here, but, better not. Better wait a while until he knows he’s safe, until he’s clean and warm. Not the warmth of a burning fire, but the warmth of a blanket, of a roof over one’s head, and a nourishing meal.
Once he was clean, with the blood washed away, I could see how pale he was, the cold red of his bloodshot, tired eyes. Eyes staring back at me with deep fear. Shaking.
He was going to run.
I pulled him close once more.
Screaming into my chest, he landed weak fists on my sides in a hapless manner, as though he wasn’t trying to hurt me, wasn’t trying to get me to let go, he didn’t know what to do at all. Trained only to fight, but even now he was weak. So he didn’t cause me pain that night, no, it was a pain to clean up the crimson footprints, the bloody bath, but he, he was far from painful.
I would figure out how to take care of him.
And so he collected butterflies for me. Ever since that day he clipped their wings so they wouldn’t fly, and placed them in his care on the wall, as their tired little bodies shrivelled up in the sun.
He never told me what happened.
I saw it with my own eyes.
That butterfly killed all those people. Everyone that stood before him died painful deaths.
He survived. As did his fascination with them. Eternally captivated by their wings.