𝐑𝐮𝐧𝐚𝐰𝐚𝐲 |𝟏𝟖+

53 || Butterfly

Song: Lana Del Rey - happiness is a butterfly (slowed + reverb)

𝔚𝔚𝔚

The American Dream.

It was chased, desired, craved. But most of all, it was an unattainable goal, one that many people died trying to strive for.

Only it was nothing but a fallacy.

A load of shit.

And in this story, it was a tool used to manipulate a desperate young woman.

Flora wanted nothing more than to lead a successful life in America.

She wanted a warm bed, a fridge full of food, and materialistic items that would temporarily bring her an ounce of happiness.

She wanted to worry about what shade of grey she'd paint the walls in her home, what type of milk she'd drink, and if her son would get into college.

But the longer she lived in the slums of New York City, a hungry crying baby in her arms, the farther that dream got and the more she coped with her medicine.

People aren't born addicts, they're turned into them and oftentimes the path to addiction is just as sad as watching them slowly throw their lives away to prioritise their next fix.

Flora didn't hate her son, she loved him dearly and most important of all, she tried to be good to him.

But in the end, when her bad habits caught up with her and these terrible men realised she was stealing from them, she knew she wouldn't be enough for him.

She'd kissed the American Dream goodbye but held onto the hope that it'd come true for her son.

"A thief is as good as dead to me." Arturo had said.

She wasn't a thief, she was merely taking half of the money that belonged to her. But she knew better than to argue with a man like him.

"Please." She'd tried pathetically, yet the grater part of her was unsure why she was trying so hard to survive. She tried so hard to forget and look where that landed her - a washed up addict who doubled as a whore.

"Unless, they have something more to offer." He'd added.

And like secondary nature, she lowered her head and began to lift her shirt, only for him to grip onto her thin wrist. "If I wanted sex, I'd have taken it already." He spat.

Her furrowed brows were indication of her confusion. There was only one good thing she had to offer, what else could a man possibly want from her? "What would you like then?" Her voice was frail.

His eyes then shifted to the little boy in the corner of the room, watching the exchange with curios eyes.

But Arturo knew there was more than curiosity behind that gaze. There was a hint of understanding, and from the way he stood tall, at six or seven years old, with a small blade in his hand, like he'd protect his lousy addict of a mother with his life, sparked something in Arturo's eyes.

"Your son." Arturo Moretto knew potential when he saw it.

And that boy was a warrior in the making.