This is a translation of one of my spanish stories. English is not my first language, so if you find any mistakes, please let me know.
Guido Mista always was a superstitious man.
He always wore a silver cross hanging from his neck, crossed himself when passing a church or chapel, never went under a staircase, avoided black cats, drew protective circles on spilled salt, and splashed water in the broken glass. And above all, anyone who knew him knew how terrified he was about the number four.
But not everyone knew about the butterflies.
Many years ago, when Guido Mista was a scrawny boy with huge eyes that saw the world with reverential fear and awe, he used to spend his weekends with his grandma. And he loved her, he loved her more than his parents or his brothers, because Sonia Mista always had colorful candies and cookies with chocolate chips on a shelf; she prepared his favorite dishes for no reason; she bought him the most beautiful, red and brilliant apple every time they went to the market; she smelled like paraffin and sugar; she stroked his hair to make him sleep; she always told him wonderful stories and she never hit him, even if he broke or messed something up.
Sonia Mista was a good woman. And she was very superstitious too.
One Sunday morning, when they were both coming back from the market, they found a dark butterfly perched on the door frame. Its wings were huge, almost the size of little Guido's hands. And black, as black as the eyes of the future gunslinger.
Sonia screamed. The sound, coming from the top of her lungs, scared the birds away from the birdbath. And little Guido dropped his single grocery bag to cover his ears. Sonia's bags also fell to the ground and the and the groceries got covered in dirt, but she didn't notice.
"What's wrong, nonna?"
The woman raised a shaking finger and pointed toward the door.
"Those are Death's messengers , Guido."
Sonia refused to go back into the house, especially with her little grandson. They spent the rest of the day at the home of a friendly neighbor who even gave him cookies and hot chocolate.
At night, when Guido's mother returned for him, Sonia begged him to let her stay a few nights at her house, only until the trace of death disappeared. The woman replied that all the rooms were occupied since her brother was visiting, and that she was not going to send him to the couch 'cause of an absurd superstition.
Mista was half asleep, because it was eleven at night and no five-year-old should still awake that late, but even so, he felt his nonna cross him as giving him her blessing, as she always did when they part away.
"Be a good boy, piccolo."
That was the last time he saw her, because the funeral was closed casket.
A few hours later, a junkie broke into her house. And in the midst of his drug-induced trance, he mistook the sweet old lady for some unspeakable horror, so he smashed her skull with one of her own chandeliers.
Mista wouldn't think about the butterfly until three years later, when one of those, identical to the one in his nonna's house, appeared in his classroom. The sight of those dark wings brought to his mind his nonna's shriek, making him feel physically ill.
He vomit on his desk, so the teacher sent him to the school nurse, where they gave him tea and told him to wait until someone in his family was able to pick him up.
And there was little Guido, waiting for his older brother to come out of his own school, sitting in a metal chair while he drank too-cold tea, when a bunch of childish screams flooded the schoolyard.
The school closed for a week. When it opened, all the fans had been removed from the ceilings and Guido's classroom was permanently locked, so the children in his group were redistributed among the remaining three. Neither his mother nor any other adult wanted to explain him what happened... But somehow, the children always found out, and then spread the word.
"The fan fell from the ceiling and crushed that girl's skull."
"No, it didn't crush her head. It slit her neck and the blood splattered everywhere"
"My cousin was in that class. He says that he didn't see what happened, because he always sat in the back, but that some blood fell on his face. And that another girl got a broken arm."
"Hey! Mista! Did you see what happened?"
"No. I was at the nurse's"
"it's true that you sat next to the dead girl?"
"..."
"C'mon! Just tell us!"
"Yes."
At sixteen, Mista got a job as a delivery boy. It was a shitty job, but after being expelled from school, his father told him that, or he started to contribute money to the house, or he could left. Eight hours stuck in traffic seemed like a better alternative than sleeping in a park in at almost-winter. Besides, even though the weekly check went directly to his father's wallet, the tips were his, so he was comfortable with the arrangement.
Until one day, before starting his journey, he found one of those Death's messengers perched on his motorcycle.
He tried to to reason with his boss, but the restaurant only had three functional motorcycles, so a exchange was not an option. Besides, that old man was unable to understand the logic behind his request. Half an hour later, Mista tried to claim that he actually found the motorcycle with flat tires, but the security camerasfrom a near warehouse caught him stabbing them with what was presumably a pocket knife.
The Pizza-shop owner did not press charges, but Mista was fired without his check. When he got home, his mother asked why he was out of work that early. He didn't lie, believing that she would understand.
For a couple of nights he managed to sleep in the waiting room of a hospital, pretending that he had an hospitalized relative. On the fourth night (because of course he had to be fucking fourth) the guards discovered the charade and threw him out on the street.
It was cold outside, not cold enough to freeze someone to death, but the only thing Guido had to protect himself from the weather was the clothes in which he had been thrown out of home. Fortunately, he had always been good at improvising. He found several almost-intact newspapers in a nearby trashcan, and decided those were enough.
His face was uncovered, so the rays of the sun woke him up at the early morning. He lazily stretched out, his bones crunching in an attempt to release the tension built up from sleeping on a concrete bench. Before he fell asleep, he had formulated a little survival plan that consisted of stealing a couple of wallets, paying a night at a cheap motel, trying to groom himself a bit, and getting some easy job as a bag loader or something similar.
He got up. The newspapers fell to the ground. The huge red letters on one of the covers caught his eye.
"TRAILER FLIPS OVER AND CRUSHES DELIVERY BOY"
There were images, of course. After all, it was the red note. The photographs were not hight-quality and the motorcycle was wrecked, but he thought he was able to identify a revolver sticker that he himself had pasted on the gas tank.
Some time later, a series of coincidences caused Mista to end up involved in the mafia and become a Stand User. Sometimes he would do dangerous shit and get hurt, but his boss, Bucciarati, was a good man, and a better older brother than his own older brother. He became fond of him, as did with Fugo and Narancia, who were always on board for his most stupid ideas (and sometimes even more stupid ones). Even Abbacchio, under that facade of hatred for the world and selflessness, he was an excellent friend.
After a year, referring to them as "his family" felt natural.
Mista knew that life in the mafia was a Russian roulette and that the tiniest mistake in a mission was enough for everything to go to hell, but he felt lucky. He had the notion that as long as he kissed the silver cross before each mission and took care of the fours, the broken mirrors, the stairs, and the black cats, he and the others were safe. Fugo, being a man of science, watched his actions with skepticism and a hint of disdain. But Guido didn't care, because the bullets never hit lethal points, the bombs didn't explode in their range, the knives only grazed them, and the reinforcements always appeared at the perfect timing.
During his first year and a half at Passione, Mista never felt afraid of death.
Until one night, in the middle of spring, they arrived to their special table in Libeccio. And he found not one, but three of those butterflies perched on his usual table, each with identical huge, tar-dark wings.
As a mere reflex, he stepped back as far as possible without allowing those pest to leave his field of vision, and tried to prevent the others from approaching the table, because it was tainted by death. They didn't listen to him, so he shot each of those Devil's creatures, blowing them to pieces, then overturned the table and tried to convince them that they should get out of the cursed restaurant right now and never set foot again until each of those three souls was claimed, but no matter how hard he shouted, no one understood that he was trying to protect them, so he ended up on the floor, disarmed like a broken mannequin, while the waiters and his own family watched him as if he had lost his sanity.
And when he was physically unable to do anything else, he screamed and screamed and screamed until someone, probably Abbacchio, pressed a specific point on his neck and everything went black.
He woke up hours later in the couch that he recognized as Bucciarati's. His arms, legs, head and torso were linked as Mother Nature dictated, as if Sticky Fingers had never done his thing, but he did not have his revolver with him or the baby-knife he hid in his boots.
He stared at the ceiling, trying to figure out how to save his family... If nothing had happened yet. It was evident that he could not convince them to not set a foot at Libeccio, 'cause it was one of the only places where they could gather and buy food without risking to be spied on or poisoned by the staff.
It didn't have to be permanent, he thought. He just had to push them away until all three souls were claimed...
Or he could dispatch those three souls by his own hand, and the debt with the devil would be paid.
He glanced at the clock on the mantel. It was ten thirty-seven at night. That was perfect. Libeccio was less than ten minutes away on foot and closed until eleven o'clock. He could wait for three of his employees in the back alley. And when everything was done, he might try to convince Fugo to help him with the corpses. Or he could just stick out their eyes and cut out their fingerprints and tongues, and the police would assume it was a Passione reckoning and not stick their filthy noses.
His revolver would have made things, but he didn't need it. He tip-toed to the kitchen and found one of Bucciarati's butcher knives as well as a little spoon and wrapped both utensils in a cloth napkin. With the same stealth, he headed to the entrance, hoping the door wasn't locked, since using the window would take a couple of precious minutes away.
The knob turned without resistance.
"Where are you going, Mista?"
The gunslinger cursed under his breath.
"I asked you a question."
"I need to take care of something." He replied without turning to see Bucciarati.
"What's that something?"
"The butterflies. Someone is going to die and I don't want it to be one of you."
Bruno let out a tired sigh. Although he couldn't see it, Guido would bet he was massaging his temples.
"Please, sit down."
Despite the "please", Mista knew it was an order and he had no choice but to obey.
"Explain to me, please. What's this thing about the butterflies?"
Guido told him everything. He told him about the motorcycle with the revolver sticker, about Lucía (that was the the name of that girl the fan had slaughter) and about that Sunday morning thirteen years ago. He repeated almost verbatim his grandmother's explanation about how big-black butterflies heralded imminent death and explained that the only way to know that they were safe was someone else dying in their places. Bucciarati listened attentively, without interrupting or grimacing at him, and when Guido finished speaking, he was silent for a minute, as if he was actually considering the matter.
"We are going to do this: We will return to Libeccio only until it's strictly necessary for all of us to meet, and tomorrow I will ask for an special table set up for us in a diferent wing of the restaurant. I'll also give you back your revolver and your knife. But if something happens to any of the local employees and I have the slightest suspicion that you caused it, I'll have you transferred from my team. Are we clear?"
Mista wasn't entirely convinced, but it was a reasonable proposition. And actually, he had no other choice.
They did not return to Libeccio until a week later, when Bucciarati informed them that they would have a new member on the team. As promised, they were assigned a table in a less private area, but a reasonable enough distance from where they had seen the butterflies for Guido to feel at ease.
The wood of the table gleamed. As if it were new. Or as if it had just been sanded and painted after filling three bullet holes.
At first, Giorno Giovanna didn't seem like a big deal, but his impression of him quickly changed. Giorno was cunning, determined, calculating, chivalrous, charismatic, and deadly, as well as inhumanly handsome.
That same morning, Bucciarati became a capo and they were assigned the most important mission of their lives: to guard the boss's daughter.
A lot happened in those few days. He and Giorno quickly became close, as everyone had their brush with death, being chased by Stand User after Stand User. But it had already been more than a week since the sighting of the black butterflies, and even though death had had at least one perfect opportunity to take down each of them, they're all still breathing.
Mista felt untouchable again.
And then Abbacchio died.
And then Narancia.
And finally, Bucciati.
And Mista had the painful certainty that Trish, Giorno, Fugo (wherever he was) and himself were safe, because the bill was already settled.
When he learned the truth about the conspiracy between Giorno and Bucciarati he felt betrayed, although that was nothing compared to his own guilt. He wanted to hate Giorno, blame him for the deaths of his friends, but as he went to sleep, a husky voice in the back of his head whispered that the person responsible was not Giorno, but he, who killed them with his inaction.
It took him several months to forgive Giorno. And it took him a couple of years to forgive himself. But he did.
Luck was absurdly at his favor and his golden boy. The whole world bowed at his feet. He felt untouchable again. On the top.
Giorno became his new family.
They both agreed to keep their relationship a secret, both for security and discretion. They were fine with that: Most of the time they were too busy to indulge in romantic activities, but once every few months, they cleared their agendas and cut themselves off from the world in a secret little cabin in the countryside, so secret that not even Fugo knew of its existence.
One late summer morning, ten years after Diavolo's death, Guido Mista was awakened by the rays of the sun streaming through the window. The night before had been exceptionally hot, so it had been left wide open. Despite the weather, Giorno had slept in his arms. Noticing it, Mista smiled lazily and set a round of kisses on his alabaster neck in a tender attempt to wake him up.
"Good morning, Guido," the blonde muttered, his voice raspy from sleep.
"Good morning, love." replied the aforementioned against his neck.
Neither was particularly enthusiastic for morning sex, but the opportunities to fully enjoy each other were rare, so they had to take advantage of each one. They made love slowl and tender, muttering sweet words to each other throughout the whole act. After reaching the climax they remained in each other's arms, trying to prolong the ecstasy as long as possible.
Guido Mista, lover of simple pleasures, would have gladly spent the day in bed next to his beloved. But Giorno was an active person, so he decided to take a shower and go for a little walk.
"Look, Guido, we have a visitor," the blond commented, as he put on his fancy walking shoes. The gunslinger's gaze left his book and followed the direction indicated by those green eyes until it reached the window's ledge.
This time Guido did not scream. He didn't try to run away either: It would've been useless. Only God knew how long that little monster had been there, but he was sure it was alredy too late. They were already cursed.
"A black butterfly." The calm in his own voice surprised him.
"That's not a butterfly. It is a moth." Giorno explained.
Butterfly or moth, Mista didn't care. The bug was identical to the one in her grandmother's house, the one on the motorcycle, and the ones on the table in Libeccio.
"I see. Thanks."
Giorno finished putting on his shoes.
"Are you sure you don't want to come? The day looks beautiful."
"I'm sure."
Giorno frowned.
"Something's wrong with you, Guido. What is it?"
The smile on his lips was genuine. Like Bucciarati, he had never been able to fool Giorno.
"I have a little headache."
The lie did not convince Giorno, but he chose not to insist. He knew that Guido always spoke to him at his time without needing to be pressured.
"Do you want an aspirin? Or a tea?"
"Tea sounds good."
"Okay. I'll be back in a minute."
Giorno leaned in to give him a quick peak on the lips, but Mista took him by the shoulders, holding him almost roughly in place as he deepened the kiss. They separated only after several minutes, due to lack of oxygen.
"You don't seem to feel so bad." The blonde joked.
"It's because you're an excellent doctor." This made Giorno smile.
"I'll go get the tea. In the meantime, lay down."
"I love you, Gio."
"I love you too, Guido."
When Mista heard that the footsteps had gone far enough, he sighed and reach for his revolver.
A single butterfly (or moth) meant only one death.
He had already failed Abbacchio, Narancia and Bucciarati. This time, he wouldn't fail Giorno.
He verified that the gun was loaded.
Then brought the cannon to his temple.
Closed his eyes.
Took a deep breath.
And the moth's wings were no longer black.
There are two popular beliefs about big-ass black butterflies (and moths) in Mexico. The first is that those are souls visiting. The second, that they announce a near death. I'm not particularly superstitious... Or well, maybe I am. But I've had a couple of experiences related to those critters that... Well, maybe not terrified of them, but they make me feel nervous.
Last week I saw like three of those motherfuckers in the hotel I was staying in, and I have not stopped wondering "who is going to die".
On the other hand, have you ever seen the ceiling fan in the classroom and tried to guess who it would kill if it fell? Because I have, many, many times.