I've killed another butterfly, today.
It's the third butterfly I've killed today.
It's not that I hate butterflies…
But they make me go crazy if I don't kill them.
The way they stare at me… It's unnerving.
I have nothing against them… But I wish they would stop insinuating things.
They always make me feel bad…
They always make me feel like grabbing the nearest sharp object to do things that I hate.
It's their own fault if I have so little mercy on them.
I even feel a sadistic streak revel in their agony, sometimes.
It's okay to feel that way, right…?
But I always feel remorseful when I'm done… Even though the whole process is rather satisfying.
I usually start with the wings, so they can't fly away. And then, I slice them into pieces, limb by limb- as I used to recite the names to remember their anatomy. Limb by limb.
But when they scream much too loudly, I directly cut them down the middle.
One clean slice down the abdomen. Most of the time, I manage not to cut too deep, so I can peer inside and satisfy my morbid curiosity without having to strain my eyes to make out the details of such atypical contraption.
But there are times when I hit one of the vessels… And then it gets messy very quickly. Everything is blurred and suddenly the butterflies scream, scream right into my skull and
They gradually grow quiet…
Quiet…
I'm glad I never have to clean the mess afterwards.