Butterflies (a short story)

Sometimes she talked to butterflies. She’d sit by the cracked window in the all-white room and watch them fly by. She sang lullabies to them and told them everything would be alright.

Sometimes one would be little enough to fly in the room with her. She had an air-holed jar specially for these occasions. The nurses didn’t mind much. It gave her some company and they liked seeing her happy.

When she was allowed a break, she always asked her mother to take her to the park by the lake by her house. There were butterflies all over that place, just for her. She’d lay on the ground and watch the clouds go by, feeling the gentle breeze ruffle her hair, the nice kind of itchy feeling the tall leaves of grass gave her. Here, she’d talk to the butterflies silently. They always knew what she would say were she to speak aloud. She could feel their response in the kind way they’d sometimes land on her arm.

In a second, they’d be gone.

“Mommy,” she whispered.

“Yes?”

“I don’t feel very good.”

“What’s wrong, baby?”

“Where am I?”

The scene played in her head over and over. That awful, fateful day forever haunting.

Sometimes she talked to the nurses. She’d tell them of her hopes and dreams, of her plans. And she’d watch as they smiled with an unmistakable warmth that their eyes tried to drown out.

They didn’t think she could do it.

Sometimes she didn’t think she could do it.

Her favorite was the one with the dark hair and heavy accent. She couldn’t remember her name. She was no good with names.

It was one of those days. One of those really horrible days. She heard them talking. They were always talking about her.

“She has to die and you know it.”

“Yes, but can’t we just let it happen?”

“There’s a knife right there. This is a hospital, damn it. No one will ever know.”

“Shut up,” she said to them. “Shut up.”

But they didn’t. They kept chattering on and on, making her pace out of anxiety. She counted her steps, trying to distract herself. It was too late, though. They had already broken through and nothing would keep them out or send them away.

She made her way to the window, praying that a butterfly would be there to rescue her. To talk. To listen.

Instead, her eyes fell on a blue car sitting idly in the parking lot. The one who inflicted the most fear in her was sitting in the driver’s seat, waiting. The beautiful woman with ice blue eyes, even toned skin, white-blonde hair. The one who most wished her dead.

She turned back to the room and there she was. The pretty lady stood in front of her in her skirt-suit, with her arm extended, waiting to be grasped.

“It’s time to go.”

A gravity pulled her toward the thirtysomething woman and she could not fight it. Not with strength or muscle or will power or words. All control handed over as she was lead to death.

The door creaked open and in an instant everything was gone; no talking; no woman; nothing.

“Excuse me,” a soft voice said. “Is everything alright in here?” It was a nurse.

“Oh, God,” she exhaled.

“Are you okay?”

“What would be important for you to talk about today?” The Shrink.

“I dunno,” she mumbled. That was all she ever knew to say to The Shrink.

“Interesting.”

“I just, ugh, I feel like such a little kid whenever I talk to you or about this stuff.”

“Why do you think that is?”

Silence.

“Why do you think I’m here?”

“I’m here to help you help yourself,” said The Shrink. “Not to give you all the answers without any work.”

“Then I’ve been watching all the wrong movies.” More silence. “I feel dead. In the literal form. Nonexistent.”

“Mommy,” she whispered.

“Yes?”

“I don’t feel very good.”

“What’s wrong, baby?”

“Where am I?”

They sent her to see another psychiatrist. The two before couldn’t tell what was wrong. They all hoped this one would.

“Hello, there.”

Typical, she thought. Doctors trying to act casual when they really think you’ll snap at any moment is so typical.

They talked for sixty minutes. She was constantly being sked more details on what she saw. Asked about suicide and the dreams she had.

Eventually, The Psychiatrist had decided on Psychosis as the diagnosis and listed off some recommended medications.

On her way out, she saw someone who appeared to be her age in the lobby.

Maybe depression, she thought of this one. She certainly doesn’t look psychotic.

Then again, neither did she.

“Mommy,” she whispered, just like before.

“Yes?”

“I don’t feel very good.”

“What’s wrong, baby?” It was playing out just as it had before, when she’d been sent away.

“I feel dead.”

“You’ve got to tell yourself the truth.”

“Look, I already told you, the truth doesn’t help. It doesn’t keep them away.”

“Just don’t listen.”

“It’s not up to me.”

“Darling…”

“I can’t keep doing this. Pretending everything’s fine, that I’m fine, when all I do is anticipate my murder and question everybody’s intentions. But it’s not up to me.”

“They you’ve got to hang on, butterfly. Just hang in there.”

“Butterflies die, too,” I whisper.