It was beautiful.
The butterfly flapped its wings, quickly fluttering from a branch to a flower. The delicate, paper-thin wings then paused as if to show off their supposed brilliance, and the butterfly became as still as the woman watching it.
It was beautiful, she had decided. It was very beautiful. And deadly.
To an innocent child that might have happened upon the cluster of flowers, the butterfly was a small, gentle creature of brilliance—one of nature's many miracles. To the bitter, pink-haired woman kneeling in the grass, overwhelmed with fresh grief and fury over her husband's loss, the butterfly—all of them—was nothing short of a murder.
In one, quick movement, the woman's hand shot out and closed around the butterfly. She squeezed for several moments, crushing the fragile wings with ease. Then she wiped her hand on her bright purple skirt.
The bright splotch of blood that would soon stain her lips would be almost as beautiful as the butterfly.
Aelita stood, turning her back on the flowers the butterfly had rested on a few seconds ago. I'll see you soon, Jeremy.
The tears gathering in her eyes blurred the ground. She blinked them away and wiped at her now wet mouth, wanting to have a perfect view of the blood. She gazed at the red on her hand for a few seconds, a sudden feeling of pain exploding in her chest. The blood was almost as beautiful as the butterfly.
Aelita crumpled to the ground, eyes wide and lightless.
Almost.