Butterfly
~~~~~
They fuck you up, your mum and dad. --'This Be the Verse' by Philip Larkin
~~
Amanda: ...You know, if you try to hold a butterfly tightly in your hand, it will die. You have to let it go. If it comes back, it is truly yours, but if it doesn't, it never really was.
Jane: How about if you tear off its precious little wings?
--'Lane Miserable'
~~~~~
Trent rocked back and forth, one had rubbing Jane's back, the other her shoulder, his cheek resting against the top of her head. Her hands clutched his shirt, and her body racked with sobs. She was trying to stifle them, and, in a minute or two, she would succeed.
Inwardly, he cursed his parents. They had both skipped out this time, his mother to one of the retreats she favored, his father to some desert in some country he couldn't pronounce.
Jane's sobs began to quiet, so Trent pulled away. He placed a kiss on her forehead and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear.
"Better, Janey?"
She nodded, sniffling a bit and drying her eyes with the sleeves of her shirt. He grinned at her.
"Good. Let's go make our lunches," he said as he pulled her to her feet and off the couch. She giggled and held onto his hand tightly as he led her into the kitchen. While she was busy spreading Mayo in thick layers on their bread, Trent crumpled up his mother's note and threw it away.
~~~~~
Trent plucked at the strings of his guitar moodily. A notebook lay next to him on the couch, the top page covered in writing. Occasionally he would pause in his playing and jot down a few lines or make changes in previously written ones.
The handle of the front door jiggled. Trent continued to play as his mother opened the door. She stumbled into the house, a suitcase in one hand, a large clay jug cradled in her other arm.
"Goodness!" Amanda exclaimed, dropping the suitcase beside the door. "That's heavy! Oh, hello, Trent. I'm home."
He ignored her, reaching out to flip over his notebook so she couldn't read what was written there. She continued to chatter, describing the retreat, the other artists that had been there, an encounter with an old friend. Trent kept him mouth shut, trying his best to not listen, to not respond. He wanted to yell at her, to grab her and shake her and make her understand that her youngest daughter needed her. Jane needed her to be there, to punish her, to listen to how her day was, to paint with her, to just be there.
It wouldn't make a difference though. If he said anything, he'd get the butterfly speech. He hated that speech. In a fit of pique he had once given her a jar of butterflies, their wings scattered at the bottom of the jar beneath their feet. She hadn't understood; instead she'd hailed it as a piece of art, an expression of creativity. She'd prattled on about what he could possibly be saying with it, never once catching on. He'd stopped bothering with either parent after that.
~~~~~
Trent tumbled from his bed, taking his pillow, sheets, and alarm clock with him. He lay half on the floor, half on his bed, smacking the alarm with his palm, trying to get it to go off. It finally quieted, and he worked himself free of the tangle of sheets and staggered to his feet. He stood blinking sleepily before he yawned and headed to Jane's room.
"Janey, time to get up!" he called through the door, knocking. A low grumbling sound was his answer. He opened the door and peered into her room, flicking on the lights.
Jane was a lump of blankets piled high at the head of her bed.
"Janey, come on. Get up."
"Go 'way, Trent."
"Can't. Come on." Trent tugged at her covers, pulled them away from her head and shoulders. She hunched up and reached out to pull them back over herself. He sighed.
"You stayed up painting, didn't you?"
Jane mumbled something inaudible.
"Come on, Janey. We both have school." He pulled the blankets off her completely, leaving her uncovered. She curled up tightly in a ball for a moment and then uncurled and sat up.
"All right, all right, 'm up."
"Good. Now get dressed."
Jane blinked at him. "Yeah, yeah," she grumbled around a yawn.
He left her alone, dropping her blankets by her door. Trent dressed and then joined her in brushing her teeth. He left her fussing with her hair and headed downstairs.
A note was sitting on the kitchen table. Trent didn't bother to read it, not caring what version of the same story it was today. He wanted to throw it away, but Jane liked to read them for some reason, so he left it. He started a pot of coffee for himself, and poured Jane a cup of orange juice.
At the sound of Jane thumping down the stairs, Trent turned. He watched her enter the kitchen. Her eyes went automatically to the table, checking for a note. Finding one, she picked it up and read it.
Trent waited, watching her closely. He waited for her to bite her lower lip and blink rapidly. He waited for her chin to quiver and her shoulders to heave. He waited for the sniff and then the tears, but neither came. None of it came. Jane simply dropped the letter on the table and headed for the fridge.
"There's no lunch meat, Trent. Can I have some money?"
He reached into his pockets wordlessly, handing over all of his cash. She took it and headed upstairs to finish gathering her stuff.
Trent stood numbly, watching her. He felt empty. He didn't know what to do, what to think, to feel. He blinked back tears dumbly. He reached for the note and stared at it. Suddenly, anger flooded him. He ripped it in half, then in quarters. He ripped it up until the pieces were too small to hold.
"Fuck you," he growled at his parents. "Fuck you, Amanda. Fuck you, Vincent. "Fuck you!"
He'd wanted to protect Jane, to keep her a child for a few more years. She was only nine for Christ's sake! She shouldn't have to wake up wondering if mommy was going to be there today, or if there was enough food for lunch, or if daddy was going to remember her birthday. She should have been wondering if breakfast was going to be pancakes or French toast. She should have been worrying about whether she was going to get chocolate pudding for lunch or vanilla. She should have been wondering if she was going to get that bike she wanted or that shirt she saw the other day. It wasn't fair!
Trent collapsed into a chair, burying his face in his arms. He struggled against tears. He hadn't cried since he was six; he was going to be damned if he'd do it now.
At the tug on his shirt, Trent lifted his head to look into Jane's eyes. They were guarded and wary, trying to judge if he was going to be there or if he'd be gone one day too. He wanted to hug her, but her eyes distanced him; his own eyes were staring at him from his sister's face.
"I'm ready, Trent."
He smiled at her, trying to keep his pain from showing. His face felt stiff, and he doubted he had succeeded. "Let me get my stuff together, 'kay, Janey?"
She shrugged and followed him to the living room where she flopped down on the couch, her expression one of boredom.
Upstairs, he paused at the door to her room. He hesitated and then went in. Her easel was set up at the foot of her bed, as it had always been, but today it was turned away from the door. He should have noticed it early, but he hadn't. Trent frowned and walked over to it. He stared at the painting that sat there, unable to stop the first of his tears this time.
Her canvas depicted a butterfly pinned to a board as if it were on display. In place of the traditional body, Jane had altered it so that it bore her features. The wings were beautiful, bright and intricately patterned. One wing was detached from the body and dangling limply from a pin. The other was in the process of being separated from the butterfly's body with an X- acto knife.
Trent dried his cheeks with the palm of his hand. He wasn't angry anymore; sadness having taken its place and locked it out completely. He'd been fighting a losing battle, trying to protect Jane. He had known it then, when he'd started, and he knew it now.
But he had school today, so he'd better get moving.
Trent paused in the doorway for a moment. He took in her room, the place where Jane had grown up, and then he shut the door, closing it on a childhood that had never had a chance.
~~~~~
They fuck you up, your mum and dad. --'This Be the Verse' by Philip Larkin
~~
Amanda: ...You know, if you try to hold a butterfly tightly in your hand, it will die. You have to let it go. If it comes back, it is truly yours, but if it doesn't, it never really was.
Jane: How about if you tear off its precious little wings?
--'Lane Miserable'
~~~~~
Trent rocked back and forth, one had rubbing Jane's back, the other her shoulder, his cheek resting against the top of her head. Her hands clutched his shirt, and her body racked with sobs. She was trying to stifle them, and, in a minute or two, she would succeed.
Inwardly, he cursed his parents. They had both skipped out this time, his mother to one of the retreats she favored, his father to some desert in some country he couldn't pronounce.
Jane's sobs began to quiet, so Trent pulled away. He placed a kiss on her forehead and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear.
"Better, Janey?"
She nodded, sniffling a bit and drying her eyes with the sleeves of her shirt. He grinned at her.
"Good. Let's go make our lunches," he said as he pulled her to her feet and off the couch. She giggled and held onto his hand tightly as he led her into the kitchen. While she was busy spreading Mayo in thick layers on their bread, Trent crumpled up his mother's note and threw it away.
~~~~~
Trent plucked at the strings of his guitar moodily. A notebook lay next to him on the couch, the top page covered in writing. Occasionally he would pause in his playing and jot down a few lines or make changes in previously written ones.
The handle of the front door jiggled. Trent continued to play as his mother opened the door. She stumbled into the house, a suitcase in one hand, a large clay jug cradled in her other arm.
"Goodness!" Amanda exclaimed, dropping the suitcase beside the door. "That's heavy! Oh, hello, Trent. I'm home."
He ignored her, reaching out to flip over his notebook so she couldn't read what was written there. She continued to chatter, describing the retreat, the other artists that had been there, an encounter with an old friend. Trent kept him mouth shut, trying his best to not listen, to not respond. He wanted to yell at her, to grab her and shake her and make her understand that her youngest daughter needed her. Jane needed her to be there, to punish her, to listen to how her day was, to paint with her, to just be there.
It wouldn't make a difference though. If he said anything, he'd get the butterfly speech. He hated that speech. In a fit of pique he had once given her a jar of butterflies, their wings scattered at the bottom of the jar beneath their feet. She hadn't understood; instead she'd hailed it as a piece of art, an expression of creativity. She'd prattled on about what he could possibly be saying with it, never once catching on. He'd stopped bothering with either parent after that.
~~~~~
Trent tumbled from his bed, taking his pillow, sheets, and alarm clock with him. He lay half on the floor, half on his bed, smacking the alarm with his palm, trying to get it to go off. It finally quieted, and he worked himself free of the tangle of sheets and staggered to his feet. He stood blinking sleepily before he yawned and headed to Jane's room.
"Janey, time to get up!" he called through the door, knocking. A low grumbling sound was his answer. He opened the door and peered into her room, flicking on the lights.
Jane was a lump of blankets piled high at the head of her bed.
"Janey, come on. Get up."
"Go 'way, Trent."
"Can't. Come on." Trent tugged at her covers, pulled them away from her head and shoulders. She hunched up and reached out to pull them back over herself. He sighed.
"You stayed up painting, didn't you?"
Jane mumbled something inaudible.
"Come on, Janey. We both have school." He pulled the blankets off her completely, leaving her uncovered. She curled up tightly in a ball for a moment and then uncurled and sat up.
"All right, all right, 'm up."
"Good. Now get dressed."
Jane blinked at him. "Yeah, yeah," she grumbled around a yawn.
He left her alone, dropping her blankets by her door. Trent dressed and then joined her in brushing her teeth. He left her fussing with her hair and headed downstairs.
A note was sitting on the kitchen table. Trent didn't bother to read it, not caring what version of the same story it was today. He wanted to throw it away, but Jane liked to read them for some reason, so he left it. He started a pot of coffee for himself, and poured Jane a cup of orange juice.
At the sound of Jane thumping down the stairs, Trent turned. He watched her enter the kitchen. Her eyes went automatically to the table, checking for a note. Finding one, she picked it up and read it.
Trent waited, watching her closely. He waited for her to bite her lower lip and blink rapidly. He waited for her chin to quiver and her shoulders to heave. He waited for the sniff and then the tears, but neither came. None of it came. Jane simply dropped the letter on the table and headed for the fridge.
"There's no lunch meat, Trent. Can I have some money?"
He reached into his pockets wordlessly, handing over all of his cash. She took it and headed upstairs to finish gathering her stuff.
Trent stood numbly, watching her. He felt empty. He didn't know what to do, what to think, to feel. He blinked back tears dumbly. He reached for the note and stared at it. Suddenly, anger flooded him. He ripped it in half, then in quarters. He ripped it up until the pieces were too small to hold.
"Fuck you," he growled at his parents. "Fuck you, Amanda. Fuck you, Vincent. "Fuck you!"
He'd wanted to protect Jane, to keep her a child for a few more years. She was only nine for Christ's sake! She shouldn't have to wake up wondering if mommy was going to be there today, or if there was enough food for lunch, or if daddy was going to remember her birthday. She should have been wondering if breakfast was going to be pancakes or French toast. She should have been worrying about whether she was going to get chocolate pudding for lunch or vanilla. She should have been wondering if she was going to get that bike she wanted or that shirt she saw the other day. It wasn't fair!
Trent collapsed into a chair, burying his face in his arms. He struggled against tears. He hadn't cried since he was six; he was going to be damned if he'd do it now.
At the tug on his shirt, Trent lifted his head to look into Jane's eyes. They were guarded and wary, trying to judge if he was going to be there or if he'd be gone one day too. He wanted to hug her, but her eyes distanced him; his own eyes were staring at him from his sister's face.
"I'm ready, Trent."
He smiled at her, trying to keep his pain from showing. His face felt stiff, and he doubted he had succeeded. "Let me get my stuff together, 'kay, Janey?"
She shrugged and followed him to the living room where she flopped down on the couch, her expression one of boredom.
Upstairs, he paused at the door to her room. He hesitated and then went in. Her easel was set up at the foot of her bed, as it had always been, but today it was turned away from the door. He should have noticed it early, but he hadn't. Trent frowned and walked over to it. He stared at the painting that sat there, unable to stop the first of his tears this time.
Her canvas depicted a butterfly pinned to a board as if it were on display. In place of the traditional body, Jane had altered it so that it bore her features. The wings were beautiful, bright and intricately patterned. One wing was detached from the body and dangling limply from a pin. The other was in the process of being separated from the butterfly's body with an X- acto knife.
Trent dried his cheeks with the palm of his hand. He wasn't angry anymore; sadness having taken its place and locked it out completely. He'd been fighting a losing battle, trying to protect Jane. He had known it then, when he'd started, and he knew it now.
But he had school today, so he'd better get moving.
Trent paused in the doorway for a moment. He took in her room, the place where Jane had grown up, and then he shut the door, closing it on a childhood that had never had a chance.