Title: Winged Fancy
Author: sundroptea
Disclaimer: I don't own them, and I really hope that Tim Burton is okay with people borrowing, because he is absolutely not a man I'd ever wish to anger. He might have a way to force me to live inside of his head, and I'm not entirely sure I'd be able to take it.
Author's Notes: I found this in one of my notebooks, when I was sorting out the various miscellany I'd brought back with me from college. Just a drabble, so nothing too exciting. Enjoy!
His daughters hated butterflies.
They never said anything, never acknowledged it. But he knew.
He would watch their perfect button noses wrinkle in distaste, and their bright brown eyes roll when delicate wings fluttered by. These were not unkind girls. His daughters were sweet and affectionate; mild, darling, humble little creatures for the most part, and they all adored their father. Nothing delighted them more than when he'd draw for them.
Once, and only once, he drew them a butterfly.
The next day he'd found one smashed on the stoop, it's fragile body twisted and flattened-mangled.
He drew them flowers, and lady bugs, and kittens and he painted them trees, lakes, buildings, dreams, and sunsets. He kept any butterfly pictures to himself.
It was his fault, he supposed. Victoria surmised that they were jealous of his fascination with them. He would admit that he did have a fondness for them, but they disliked the creatures with such vehemence…
No, his daughters, angels though they be, thoughtful and compassionate to the poor, the sick, the stupid, and the lost, would take the life of a butterfly with glee and without remorse.
He asked them once, to see what they would say, to see if perhaps they understood.
"Butterflies, father?" replied his youngest daughter, in her serious little way, with her brow wrinkled in confusion. "Why, I don't think I've ever thought about them either way."
Victoria stepped up behind him, and placed her supportive hand on his shoulder, keeping silent, just as curious by the girls as he.
"I don't trust them," her elder sister sniffed. She rested her chin on her hand as she considered. "They look like tiny thieves to me, loaded down with colors and jewels they stole from someone else. Deceitful creatures."
"I disagree," a dreamy voice chimed in. "There's nothing deceitful about them! If anything, I find them to be the opposite, completely guileless, open to all, even when it hurts." His eldest child continued, "They always seem like they're looking for something, not to steal, but to love."
Yes, his daughters hated butterflies.
But his son…