Dream
.
"You'll die with a hole in your chest. Isn't that what you always wanted?"
A spring breeze ruffled the man's hair as he drew back his sharp instrument.
"Gin? Where are you?"
The purple tissue of the wings was already crushed, but the insect continued to writhe against the thin fingers pressing it down.
"Are you in the garden?" The woman's voice came closer.
Purple like an emperor's cloak, like the garments of kings, caged against the rough white paper: the butterfly was beautiful, the man thought, especially in this moment. Trying so desperately to live.
"Kill, God-Slaying Spear," he whispered, and the pin gleamed like a dart into the core of the butterfly.
"There you are." The woman stepped out into the garden and looked down at the little table, the box with regiments of butterflies held flat like dried flowers. "What are you doing?" she said, as though the words were an old habit.
"I had a dream," the man said, standing up. There was something bright colored on his fingertips.
A/N: I . . . dunno. Any thoughts?