They say that we'll all die. That we'll all pay for poisoning their water. They say that those dead children are our fault. They say they'll do it to us just like we did it to them.

They say we have five days to live after.

Sunshine. Always good. I fly from the trees to the flowers below. Today will be good, I tell myself. Today the birds won't eat us. Today is when the flock introduces brand new caterpies. It wasn't that long ago that I was one-on-the-earth. But now I am in the sky, the air, the feeling of freedom lifting me higher ever more. I love being free.

The flowers smell of spring as I descend towards them. For some reason they're…too bright, but their sweet smell beckons me closer. Nectar's delicious, cloying my tongue with sticky-sweet. My brood is enjoying them left and right. The sunshine feels good. Those giants-tall are laughing, too. Maybe they don't want us to pay after all, maybe the sweet-and-sun are doing them good. I smile with the thought.

Darkness from the no-moon is everywhere.

I feel this tingling on my feet and wings. It's probably nothing to worry about. It'll just go away in the morning when I wake up. But it feels so strange.

A word keeps on nagging me, whispering in my tired-sleepy head. Something...something says f…five?

FIVE.

The morning is full of wind. Trees are shaking, and I can't rest in my branch anymore. My fellow brood flies down to the ground of too bright flowers, away from the winds. I fall down instead. It's like I can't control my wings anymore, they're so useless and heavy. My feet don't help either. But it's just the winds, right?

FOUR.

Heavy turns to pain. Some of my brood just collapses in the middle-of-the-air. They are already dead. Birds appear out of nowhere and save us the work of wrapping them in silk. That's good, because nobody's feeling up to doing anything. They complain of tingling and heaviness and whispering of words in their heads like me. My word is now four, whatever that means.

When I try to fly, I fall. It pains me more than the hurt aching, not being able to fly. I am supposed to be up there, in the world of blue and fluffy clouds, not here, all tired and pained.

THREE.

More of us die. The ones that are still alive are getting scared now. The pain doesn't stop inside me. I tell my wings to flap, but they only flutter a little bit. It takes all of my strength to not fall asleep now. I fight the fear and pain as hard as I can, while the word has changed again. I will be better tomorrow. I just have to be free.

TWO.

Rain soaks my wings, but it doesn't matter. I can't feel them anymore.

Even my antennas, my forever-faithful antennas, are starting to twitch on their own. Why I am feeling so cold? I'm really scared now. I don't pretend I will get better tomorrow. Everyone is dead except me. Even the young caterpies are no more in this world.

Please, giants! It wasn't us who poisoned your half-giant-children. You scattered the too bright pellets into our flowers, we ate the nectar, and we do what animals do into the river. But you insisted on scattering even brighter pellets after that. Those flowers were what I ate on the day of sunshine. I can't believe it was just a little while ago.

ONE.

I can't move. I can't blink. I can barely breathe.

Nobody's here to say good-bye to me. The sunshine is here again, just for me today. I am too numb to be scared. Instead I wonder and wish. I wonder what will happen to me when that darkness-around-my-vision turns solid black. I wish I can fly freely again.

Freedom is what makes a butterfree, I think.

Freedom isn't this cold darkness….