Soubi

Soubi sees a broken butterfly

There was a butterfly on the sidewalk outside my apartment building earlier. Its wings were twitching, attempting futilely to gain lift. But the thing would have been better off trying to fly with just one wing; the other had a large hole in it. An odd sense of combine nostalgia, contempt, and pity seeped into me as I watched it tremble on the ground at my feet. I stooped and looked at it closer.

The nostalgia was easy to place, Sensei and his fascination with the little winged creatures came to mind every time a butterfly even crossed my mind. Sensei and butterflies were very much connected in my mind. I despised them bother but, like a true masochist, I couldn't keep myself from painting one and the other followed close behind in my mind. It was almost physical, the desire to pour out my tense childhood in their form. It was odd, my paintings of butterflies are the only time Sensei comes to mind. Ever.

Pity was also easy; the thing would die soon, no matter what I did.

A door behind me opened and closed. Someone from an apartment below mine was coming down the steps, toward me. Maybe it was the blonde girl who always had company, or, perhaps, the old widow with the cats. I still don't know and still don't care but, with the noise of the world going on around me, I could see myself plainly, as any passerby would: a grown man, squatting, looking at a dead butterfly.... Not odd at all.

I didn't look up as the stranger passed, but, never the less, I could feel the stare on my back.

I staring at the broken thing before me. As most of my mind was figuring out why I felt contempt for a dying butterfly, a small portion set about wondering what paints it would take to make that color of green. It wasn't a conscious thing I did, my brain automatically tries to guess at what colors would work as "that green", whatever "that green" happened to be (a dead apple red, a 'just so' fuchsia, Ritsuka). When I had first seen it, I had a flicker of the idea to pick it up and take it inside to recreate in all its wrecked glory. It would die and wither before I had time to get canvas. I had never seen the wing-type before, which almost surprised me while I inspected it. When I was younger, I thought he must have every kind of butterfly that there ever was or ever could be. It also almost surprised me that I remembered exactly which ones he had; I remember everything he ever said to me.

I stared down at the butterfly beneath me, wondering if this, living and dying a quiet, unknown life, was better than being pinned and displayed. Like you're entire life had led up to being the pretty scenery, a part of someone's collection. Once the beautiful butterfly had been a fuzzy, ugly caterpillar, and still, if you looked close enough it was still ugly. But, of course, no one cared enough to look any closer than the beauty from a far; they contented themselves with not thinking that far back and keeping a distance.

My eyes focused—when had they crossed?—as the green thing twitched a little more vigorously, belatedly realizing that I was looming over it; deciding its fate. I half expected the broken wing to fall off onto the sidewalk to wait for the sun to dry it out or for someone to step on it.

I couldn't help the slight smile as I finally made up my mind.

Sensei didn't need to know about this butterfly, and the butterfly didn't need to be known.

I stood and brushed off the knees of my pants, though I hadn't even been on the ground. I stepped over the butterfly and began walking again. It would die soon; I could do it the favor of not disturbing it. It had landed there and there it would stay. Whatever misfortune had bent its wing was not my concern and it was not my place to move it. Living and dying on your own terms was the most anyone could ask of Fate. Just because I couldn't didn't mean the butterfly had to suffer too.