My Life as a Butterfly

My Life as a Butterfly

Introduction: Where we learn that to fly means to fall.

A searing pain erupts in my chest as the dagger--no, sword. No--knife…or whatever the hell it is scrapes against what I assume to be one of my vertebrae, or depending on the implement being used, possibly a rib. The disputed bone, however, lacks precedence over the question of why my upper body is being subjected to this cruel torture. As if torture could be anything but cruel.
I feel it is prudent to state that I mean to make no satire regarding this matter. It is excruciatingly painful to be handled in this manner, but nothing seems to make sense to my addled brain at the moment, other than the blindingly obvious fact that my left lung may very likely have been punctured. It’s strange, but--and forgive me if this seems silly--I had been under the impression that the closer one comes to death, the less pain one will experience. That perhaps consciousness becomes a fleeting, wispy creature, allowing for an escape from the agony. Perhaps I am mistaken.
Other sensations begin to war with the pain for my attention. Strong hands holding me under my arms, pulling. Dragging me, then letting go. Another jolt of intense discomfort, though that is far too mild a word, as my torso flops onto the floor. The sound of an opening door, and I imagine that my rapidly numbing extremities might feel the slightest shift in temperature, a draft maybe. My arms are once again utilized to drag my nearly dead weight, and my suspicions are confirmed: soon my feet are making tracks in the freshly fallen snow. I cannot bring myself to open my eyes.
It seems we move forever until we at last come to a halt, but surely it is only mere moments. The grievous wound I suffer from is causing much turmoil within my mind, warping my perception as well leeching the life from my body. Before I may even register what is transpiring, I lift completely off of the frozen earth and am slung over the back of what I presume to be a horse, given the scent of leather and damp hide. An intense wave of pain crashes over my diminished senses, before I lose consciousness.

When I again (almost) make my way back to the land of the living, I hear the sound of rushing water. Fear strikes me, for only the river which winds its way through the forest surrounding my village is large enough to produce such sound. Why am I being brought here, of all places?
Because, an insidious thought mocks, it is the perfect place to dispose of a body. No stench, carrion feeders, or threat of anyone finding you who will recognize your carcass. True. So depressingly true.
Another jolt of pain as I am roughly pulled from the haven of the horses back, and without further ado--no parting words from my killer, no regrets, jibes or sniffles--I am thrown into the icy waters of a river that I grew up beside, getting to know it as I knew the intimate details of my own dwelling. Who knew that the betrayal of a life long companion could be more painful than the tearing devastation of a knife?

First Flight: Betrayed Salvation

I remember once witnessing the death of a childhood friend. She and her suitor had been enjoying a leisurely day boating on the river when she somehow fell into the placid waters, struggled a few moments, then went under and never came up again. I have heard both sides of the story, that it was deliberate, an accident. The only thing we all knew for certain was that the current was relatively sluggish, and that she was as accomplished a swimmer as the next villager. It was the worst day of my life, until my own unfortunate run-in with the same river.
My dreams are still haunted by her screaming, visions of her thrashing about in the water as her lover tried vainly to reach her as she finally slipped beneath the murky surface. As traumatic as the death was itself, it was more so the betrayal of something I had trusted with all of my heart, forgive the cliché expression. But really, it is akin to knowing a dog or a cat for a very long time. It is always playful and willing to be petted, but one day when with blind faith you reach down to tweak its ears it lashes out and bites your outstretched hand. The action seems completely random, for you have done nothing to provoke it, and from that day forward it appears you pet the animal as you have done for years, but now there is a slight hesitance that maybe only you can perceive, but it is there nonetheless.
That is how the betrayal felt. There were no signs from the river that it ever might be harmful, but it took that girl’s life in a heartbeat. I still swam in the river, but not as far out as I once had. I fished, but from the safety of its shores. Never did I regain the sense of confidence I once possessed as I navigated its wake.

I feel so weightless and disconnected from reality, and yet at the same time I am aware of most of what goes on around me. The water is beyond merely freezing but I cannot truly appreciate the temperature of the icy depths, as the pain from my wound merges with the icy pain of the water, becoming one and the same. My eyes are closed, but they needn’t be open for me to know that I am slowly drifting with the current even as I sink nearer to the bed of the waterway. My scattered thoughts make a final rally, forcing me to pry open my lids and look upon the solid sheet of ice far above me that has now become the cover of my coffin. It’s strange to be noticing this, but the water always gave the impression of being green in color, and yet from this angle and in this season it appears remarkably blue, lighter at the surface where the moonlight penetrates the ice, deeper at my level. So strange to notice this….
My thoughts again begin to wander, ending their brief revolution towards achieving sanity. I must be closer to the neighborhood of death than I had surmised, for suddenly an unknown object curls about my right arm. I assume for a moment that it is a weed or branch, but it does more than hold me in place--it begins to pull me further down, as well in a different direction. Maybe it’s the reaper, come at last to take me to the afterlife. At this point I am willing to accept my fate, anything to get me away from this wintry prison.
A few moments pass, and still I am being tugged along, gently though, as opposed to the commencement of this escapade. Why have I not yet passed away? Surely impalement and hypothermia are enough to do a person in? I should think one of them alone would be adequate, not to mention two, so why am I here floating around, wondering about why I’m floating around? While I am contemplating this mystery, the tugging abruptly ends. Before I have time to register this, and inhumanly beautiful face appears before my own, mere inches away. It’s difficult to take it all in at this angle, but what I can see amazes my frazzled nerves.
White brows, white hair surrounding pale blue skin, lips of a darker shade of blue, and a pair of deep, sapphire eyes one could drown in--excuse the pun. The features are narrow and seemingly delicate, but there is a strength them that the fragility tries to mask. The nose thin and straight, the mouth not as full as some would like. Cheeks bordering on the verge of hollow. A gorgeous creature, blending masculinity and femininity flawlessly, with the male portion of the aspects slightly outweighing the female.
The overall expression this fae sports is one of open concern and gentle reassurance. He says something, and I am surprised to see bubbles of air pour from his mouth with his words. I cannot hear but a vague murmur of sound, and he seems to understand this. Placing one long fingered, bone-white hand on either side of my face his lowers his own until his forehead is pressed against mine, then furrows his brows in concentration. As I watch bemusedly, a strange feeling becomes apparent inside of my head. My mind seems to shiver, then seemingly split open as words in a language I cannot comprehend come pouring into my consciousness. But as the flood continues, the words are no longer words, per se, but feelings, a maelstrom of emotion that roils and rages as each emotion struggles to make itself clear. Fear, anger, relief, worry, amazement--all rush into my head, forcing me to close my eyes, though this does nothing to lessen the effect. As my panic increases, the creature seems to bring its emotions more firmly under control, for the prevailing signals I now receive are more subdued. A comforting message of reassurance that everything will be better now, that I’m safe from further harm. And lastly, the long awaited urge to sleep, to rest, to escape from the pain in my body and heart.
*Rest yourself,* he urges with his sensation speech. *Leave your body for awhile and rest. You have reached salvation.*
And I believe him, for what other choice do I have? Either he is my salvation, come to restore me to the land of the living, or he is some trick my mind has conjured to ease the sorrow of passing. I am ready for a respite, no matter its form or intent.