He lay on his side, eyes closed and listening to the wind hum outside. As his eyes slowly slid shut for the last time for the day, in that last moment, in that soft, dark space that tips the sleeper over to the nether side, he heard it. The soft flutter of butterfly wings and a voice whishpering something that sounded like *shh thank you” He wasn’t too sure. But the sound of it pricked the skin on his soles and he suddenly got the feeling that he was being watched. His eyes jerked open, alert, and his ears scanned the night, listening hard trying to find the sound again. He felt wide awake now that he thought he was being watched. He felt a rush of adrenaline pouring down his spine kicking it to fight or flight. He jerked his head to his right and looked at the curtains that swayed gently. Okay, enough. He said to himself, and staggered from his bed towards the window and hastely pulled it towards him and lock it shut. Just in case.
He walked back into bed, pulled the sheets over his shoulders and shut his eyes.
The stupid wings. They’re so delicate. I can’t hold on to them with my fingers because the dust brushes off and they lose their shine. It’s annoying really, I mean, they look so nice when they’re flying but as soon as you try to admire it up close, it breaks. How fucking annoying. He opened his eyes again, and glanced at the glass jars that lined his shelves like teeth inside his mouth. Remember how those used to have butterflies in them? The ones you used to catch? Then you’d close the lid and watch it flutter inside it’s glass walls for so many hours trying to get out. It would at times, cling to it and rest it’s wings. But then flap them again profusely. And slowly within a day or two, the flapping would slow down and stop altogether. The thing would lie still at the bottom of bottle and I’d reach into it and hold it up in my hand. It’s so so very pretty. I like the blue ones the most. Sometimes it even looks green if you hold it in the right angle with the sunlight. But she didn’t like it. She stopped talking to me when she found out that I kept them inside jars. Why can’t she understand that beautiful things are ment to be preserved and admired? If we don’t catch it, how do we look at them? Stupid cunt. What does she know about anything. And besides, look where it got her? At the bottom of the glass box where she belongs, that’s where. So there.