Butterfly Girl
Vanessa was the reason I left him.
She was beautiful. More beautiful than any woman of my species. Her complexion and grace humbled me. I couldn't even stand to be near her. There was something unsettling about her, there on his wall. She was just so beautiful, and yet, he had killed her. And nobody blamed him.
Vanessa cardui. The Painted Lady, he told me. They're a fairly common butterfly in North America. "Not one of my best catches," he would say, "but she was the first butterfly I ever mounted perfectly. You have to pinch the thorax just right so that the butterfly is dead but you don't destroy the body. It's bloody hard, but once you learn how to do it, you get in the habit. God, I'll have to take you out sometime, Diana. You would just love it. And if you're lucky, you might get some specimens of your own to hang up on your wall for everyone to see! Wouldn't that be fun?"
"No." I wasn't in the mood to indulge him. All I could look at was the large pin sticking through that poor butterfly's limp thorax; right where her heart was, I imagined. He sighed.
"Don't go all PETA on me, Diana. It's very humane; they don't feel a thing, I swear. Honestly, ever since you've decided to become a vegetarian you've become so fucking sensitive. I'm going to have to do something about that, y'know? I know you don't like it, but it's better that this butterfly be mounted in its glory than having it smashed up against the front of somebody's truck, eh?"
The net comes down. Frantic, frantic...
I nodded, and he moved on to the photo of his Aunt.
When he left to go tend to the hot water for our tea, I returned to that poor butterfly. She stared lifelessly at me with those small black eyes, and yet I could see such a soul inside that tiny winged creature. There was so much beauty and color in those wings... a cheerful reddish-orange splashed across her wingspan, with tinges of black and white surrounding it. The contrast made her seem like such a charming little ghost, and yet so sad... That all didn't matter. There were so many pins in her poor little wings that the reddish color may very well had come from blood, though he had assured her that the wings didn't bleed. It almost made her laugh that such a tiny little animal required so many pins. It was as though he was afraid that she would muster the strength to fly away, even after being so degraded. Even the heads of wild game didn't get so many fucking pins, and yet this fragile creature looked like a victim of Vlad the Impaler...
Frantic, frantic, frantic...
I thought no more about it and drank my tea, thinking what a silly Diana I was being.
I tried to avoid sleeping with him as much as I could; not because he was bad at making love, but his snoring was such a hindrance to my slumber that I tended to avoid it altogether unless I could go a night without sleeping or remembered to bring my earplugs. This had been one of those nights, and sure enough, I was lying fast asleep with my lime-green earplugs fastened tightly in my ears. That night, it was not noise that awoke me; no, it was a soft weight pressed lightly against my shoulder that aroused me from my slumber, and immediately as I shifted awake, the ghost of a touch I had felt disappeared. I noted that he was sleeping soundly on the other side of the bed, so I ruled him out as a possible cause for the touch. Fortunately, my search was a very short one, for I found the cause immediately.
A small butterfly had gotten in to the house. I could tell it was a Painted Lady, since it looked just like the one mounted on his wall. You know, it was strange... that butterfly very well could have been the butterfly mounted on his wall. Intrigued by the small creature, I watched it flutter out our bedroom door, and decided to follow it. The beautiful phantom fluttered down the hall, past the family photographs, and down the stairs into his private study, where I had never gone before. I figured that he wouldn't mind me being down there if I explained that I had found a butterfly in our house.
I was surprised to see that there weren't more butterflies; in fact, the frames in his study were all completely empty. Still, I had no time to ponder why this should be so, as the butterfly was flitting all around the study, and it was my design to follow the strange creature to see how it got into our house. It flew around the room awhile before landing on his desk, delicately opening and shutting his wings. I very carefully crept up to the creature, wanting to take a closer look. What interested me, however, was not the butterfly; instead, I found myself reading the letter that the butterfly had landed on.
The letter was dated a few days before the date scrawled under the mounted butterfly that he so proudly displayed, marking the date of its capture. It was a love letter, but it was unlike any I had ever written him... The letter promised to meet him in secret on the day of the butterfly's untimely demise, and promised undying love and affection forever and always... The letter was signed "Vanessa M. Cardui." She had been nice enough to send a photo along, as well. She was just so beautiful, and yet, he had killed her...
I saw the little holes in the butterfly's wings, and I knew.
On the bench near his desk, there was a battery-powered nailgun. I took it quickly, and ran upstairs to his room. Pin him down, pins, pins... Get him in the thorax... He screamed when the first one went down, and the second, and the third... but I couldn't hear him through the earplugs. How do you like it now? Nails through your wings, nails through your wrists, nails through your heart...
I refuse to collect butterflies now, but I do have something special. You see that one, right there? I collected it the night I left, with all my bags and photographs and frames. Sadly, I did not kill him perfectly... There is some mess behind. You can see the smudges everywhere, but I've grown rather fond of him. You see the frame he's in? I took that from him when a left. See what it says? Speyeria diana. The Diana Fritillary butterfly. Don't worry, though; this one isn't a butterfly. It's just an ugly old moth, trapped where he belongs.
She was beautiful. More beautiful than any woman of my species. Her complexion and grace humbled me. I couldn't even stand to be near her. There was something unsettling about her, there on his wall. She was just so beautiful, and yet, he had killed her. And nobody blamed him.
Vanessa cardui. The Painted Lady, he told me. They're a fairly common butterfly in North America. "Not one of my best catches," he would say, "but she was the first butterfly I ever mounted perfectly. You have to pinch the thorax just right so that the butterfly is dead but you don't destroy the body. It's bloody hard, but once you learn how to do it, you get in the habit. God, I'll have to take you out sometime, Diana. You would just love it. And if you're lucky, you might get some specimens of your own to hang up on your wall for everyone to see! Wouldn't that be fun?"
"No." I wasn't in the mood to indulge him. All I could look at was the large pin sticking through that poor butterfly's limp thorax; right where her heart was, I imagined. He sighed.
"Don't go all PETA on me, Diana. It's very humane; they don't feel a thing, I swear. Honestly, ever since you've decided to become a vegetarian you've become so fucking sensitive. I'm going to have to do something about that, y'know? I know you don't like it, but it's better that this butterfly be mounted in its glory than having it smashed up against the front of somebody's truck, eh?"
The net comes down. Frantic, frantic...
I nodded, and he moved on to the photo of his Aunt.
When he left to go tend to the hot water for our tea, I returned to that poor butterfly. She stared lifelessly at me with those small black eyes, and yet I could see such a soul inside that tiny winged creature. There was so much beauty and color in those wings... a cheerful reddish-orange splashed across her wingspan, with tinges of black and white surrounding it. The contrast made her seem like such a charming little ghost, and yet so sad... That all didn't matter. There were so many pins in her poor little wings that the reddish color may very well had come from blood, though he had assured her that the wings didn't bleed. It almost made her laugh that such a tiny little animal required so many pins. It was as though he was afraid that she would muster the strength to fly away, even after being so degraded. Even the heads of wild game didn't get so many fucking pins, and yet this fragile creature looked like a victim of Vlad the Impaler...
Frantic, frantic, frantic...
I thought no more about it and drank my tea, thinking what a silly Diana I was being.
I tried to avoid sleeping with him as much as I could; not because he was bad at making love, but his snoring was such a hindrance to my slumber that I tended to avoid it altogether unless I could go a night without sleeping or remembered to bring my earplugs. This had been one of those nights, and sure enough, I was lying fast asleep with my lime-green earplugs fastened tightly in my ears. That night, it was not noise that awoke me; no, it was a soft weight pressed lightly against my shoulder that aroused me from my slumber, and immediately as I shifted awake, the ghost of a touch I had felt disappeared. I noted that he was sleeping soundly on the other side of the bed, so I ruled him out as a possible cause for the touch. Fortunately, my search was a very short one, for I found the cause immediately.
A small butterfly had gotten in to the house. I could tell it was a Painted Lady, since it looked just like the one mounted on his wall. You know, it was strange... that butterfly very well could have been the butterfly mounted on his wall. Intrigued by the small creature, I watched it flutter out our bedroom door, and decided to follow it. The beautiful phantom fluttered down the hall, past the family photographs, and down the stairs into his private study, where I had never gone before. I figured that he wouldn't mind me being down there if I explained that I had found a butterfly in our house.
I was surprised to see that there weren't more butterflies; in fact, the frames in his study were all completely empty. Still, I had no time to ponder why this should be so, as the butterfly was flitting all around the study, and it was my design to follow the strange creature to see how it got into our house. It flew around the room awhile before landing on his desk, delicately opening and shutting his wings. I very carefully crept up to the creature, wanting to take a closer look. What interested me, however, was not the butterfly; instead, I found myself reading the letter that the butterfly had landed on.
The letter was dated a few days before the date scrawled under the mounted butterfly that he so proudly displayed, marking the date of its capture. It was a love letter, but it was unlike any I had ever written him... The letter promised to meet him in secret on the day of the butterfly's untimely demise, and promised undying love and affection forever and always... The letter was signed "Vanessa M. Cardui." She had been nice enough to send a photo along, as well. She was just so beautiful, and yet, he had killed her...
I saw the little holes in the butterfly's wings, and I knew.
On the bench near his desk, there was a battery-powered nailgun. I took it quickly, and ran upstairs to his room. Pin him down, pins, pins... Get him in the thorax... He screamed when the first one went down, and the second, and the third... but I couldn't hear him through the earplugs. How do you like it now? Nails through your wings, nails through your wrists, nails through your heart...
I refuse to collect butterflies now, but I do have something special. You see that one, right there? I collected it the night I left, with all my bags and photographs and frames. Sadly, I did not kill him perfectly... There is some mess behind. You can see the smudges everywhere, but I've grown rather fond of him. You see the frame he's in? I took that from him when a left. See what it says? Speyeria diana. The Diana Fritillary butterfly. Don't worry, though; this one isn't a butterfly. It's just an ugly old moth, trapped where he belongs.