Reasons to Live - a collection of flash fiction stories

Butterfly

'No, stop it, James! For goodness sake, don't-' on his knees he looked up at me as I sputtered. I felt like a flailing bird, my wings broken at the base. His fingers, I'm sure would leave bruises. I was too pale, too delicate. Touch too hard, you would scrape away all the dust, and I would no longer be able to fly.

'Don't touch them, Holly,' I remember my dad telling me whenever we would laze around in the garden and I, as a curious five year old, would dart after butterflies. 'They need the dust on their wings to fly. They are delicate.' I remember him out-stretching his hand. We waited till a few moment later a small white, bland looking one perched itself up on the tip of his index finger. I leaned it to get a better look, but he shook his head so that I would not get to close. The plain, little butterfly moved its tiny wings. Rays of light caught up with the dust and it turned from white to gold. I gasped, then clasped my hands over my mouth. I never knew that something so simple could transform into something so divine.

In silence we observed it, hesitant to disrupt its rest. Tiny wings, I remember them well. I remember that moment in time as though it were a beautiful dream I had conjured up. My happy childhood life was so long ago that I barely believed it had ever existed.

I could hear my dad breathing softly, the tiny insect appeared to be at ease with him. A gentle soul. 'Watch him go, Holly,' he whispered as the small butterfly spread its wings and took to the sky. Smaller and small it became till it was nothing but a recollection. My dad smiled and wrapped his arms around me. 'Be a delicate soul, Holly. Never harsh.' He passed away that same summer.

Tears streamed down James's eyes, his hands would not let go. I knew inside he was begging for salvation. Two bottles of Chardonnay littered the floor, they lay dead, weeping from the hole in their neck. Next to them several lay cans of beer, each one of them emptied with the thought that with each sip our sorrows would disappear. But didn't we know better? No sorrow ever drowns, they all have learnt how to float.

My eyes drift upwards. Once I would watch tiny wings flutter, watch them create confused zig zags only to land upon the flowers dotting the lawn. 'Don't harm them Holly, look with your eyes, not your hands.' My dad's words would echo in my ears. Though I was almost thirty, in my mind, I would forever be his child. Daisies and carnations. I remember their scent. I close my eyes and reach for Dean. I smell the earth, the flowers they have all brought.

'No! No! Don't put him in the ground! No!' My voice was some one else's. The box was brown, wooden, it was beautifully made. Someone must have loved their art. But the ground was black and empty. Even though it was summer there was an icy chill in the very marrow of me. 'Take me with you. Dad...daddy!' I could smell the daisies, the carnations. One, two...many more than I could count though my tears. I felt them grab me, pull me away as I rushed to the grave. Someone covered my eyes with their hand. I never saw him being lowered to the ground. Somewhere in my heart a butterfly fluttered. I reached for it, touched its wings and it could no longer fly.

'I can't keep doing this. I can't keep living this life.' I saw his eyes, green and wild and full of confusion. He pulled me down and embraced me. ' I have to leave you...' I whispered. 'For your sake. For mine.'

I felt his body quiver. His tears began to flow, cascading down his cheeks. He was my casket, soon someone would be tossing flowers into the hole I will be entering. I sobbed and broke and knew the dust had all gone.

© Christine Bottas. All rights reserved 2015-2016.