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A butterfly whose wings were clipped, condemned to a cage fitting to that of a mockingbird's. Crevices simple enough for her to slip through, the graces of light fitting perfectly into the palms of her hands as she stared out the window. However behind that small child who stood on the tips of her toes, were those trailing.
The lurkers in the shadows with the glints in their eyes spewing profane profanities silently with each glance.
She was .. free to be free—but at the same time, with the clip on her delicate paper thin wings that would be the hope to bring her up to the sky toward freedom, only if she were to escape, the only thing that would await her was a plunge down to earth. What was a butterfly without its wings?
Their beauty and worth all stood in one thing. Something so fragile. And they were ever so defenseless.
An obscene persecution of a butterfly never meant to fly. A free donned spirit slipping away, amalgamating into the dusk.
'Eventually, her wings will grow stronger, and she'll fight the sky. Aurora is the burning dawn, and her blood was made from stardust with a heart of enrapturing flames. Do not touch her so carelessly, or else you will have found yourself befriending a scorching sun that you cannot handle.'
In a world, in another life -- currently pertaining to the present, Noah Demetrius Ivanov was but a mere young boy when he held his younger sister in hand, whilst ignoring his mother's screams from the bed, her eyes bloodshot, her gown soaked in sweat clinging to the collarbone of her long worn figure. "Let me kill her .. Let me kill her!"
A sedative was slipped into her IV by Albert as the blonde watched his father's back fade away into the distance.
"Aurora, Aurora, Aurora—isn't that a pretty name .. Marisol?" Noah turned to the maid who stiffened up. She gave him a glance before sighing. "Yes .. it is, Young Master." Like a paint brush being dipped in red, an invisible hand stroked across the wall. A shimmering crimson glory had weaved it's web onto the old lavish wallpaper.
"That was a rhetorical question you wench." Noah flicked his wrist and the blood detached itself away from him. Not a rhetorical, but rather a wrong answer on the poor beheaded maid's part.
"It's a hideous name. Don't you understand, Aurora? There's no place for that type of beauty in here. That smile—it's annoying. Stop it." The gleaming amethyst orbs stared down at the baby who cooed in his arms with a gentle giggle, her small minuscule fingers brushing against his cheek, smearing the blood.
"We'll see how long that smile of yours last in this hell hole." No matter what glare—what sneer and what nightmare she had been plunged into, like the pit of an endless void, swallowing her small figure into a forsaken oblivion, Aurora was like a wretched stain Noah could not rid himself of.
That smile of hers remained—and it infuriated him.
For Noah Ivanov had been stripped of the light behind his eyes long ago, and his golden blonde hair that trickled like the blood of gods, shimmering the tuscan sun enamored into its tresses, Aurora treated him like a fool, even when her hair was the blackest of midnights, and the pitchest of onyx's.
