(23) Taylor Kowalski: A Certain Slant of Light
The butterflies don't seem to mind dying. They wear death better than I do.
Perhaps it's a survival mechanism. Perhaps, if you only get a few weeks to live, it's better to live at peace with death.
There aren't many butterflies in the city, so I pick my prey carefully. You can tell a butterfly's age by the spots of uncolor that blotch and blossom on their wings. Tiny transparencies which seem to say, Take me. I'm ready.
I wasn’t ready, but I was losing my color all the same.
The day I got the news, you were the one to drive me home from the hospital. When I missed the bus, you were the only person I could call.
I had always told myself we were just office flirtmates. That our friendship started and stopped according to our timecards. It was too dangerous to ask if you wanted me the way I wanted you; yes scared me as much as no.
But you picked me up, instantly, without questioning. You walked me five floors up to my apartment, because I looked as pale and empty as I felt.
My head spun with maybes and could-bes.
When you saw my butterflies, captured in halved plastic bottles and clear food containers, your face twisted. I wonder if I looked the same the first time I discovered a butterfly lapping up mudwater. I was a little girl then, squatting over the puddle, asking the butterfly who flitted in the filth, Aren't you too lovely for this?
You had said, "What's all this for?"
I followed your stare around the room full of the dead and dying. I had hung flat-board shelves on every empty wall, and my apartment had chrysalised into a museum of the soon-to-be-lost.
You would never have fit in a place like that. You were too alive. You had too much time ahead of you.
But still I hoped.
“I sell them, on the weekends.”
“But why?”
The air thinned between us. You were as golden-haired and perfect as the sun. All light. I wanted to cup you in my palms and feel your heat.
I said the only thing I could say: “Because otherwise they just die, and no one remembers them.”
You had given a kind nod, even though I could tell by your furrowing brow that you didn’t understand. You were too polite to say no when I offered coffee, so you perched on the couch like a bird ready to take flight. Unease revealed itself in the restless tap of your fingers against your knee, in your constantly roving stare.
I returned with the drinks, and silence dug out the air between us.
“They’re a nice spot of color,” you said, finally. “I see why you like them.”
“They’re clear, you know.”
“The… containers?”
“The wings.” I stirred my coffee around and around to avoid looking at you. Your stare had me pinned and spread, another dead butterfly on the coffee table. Ready to be packed and carried to the street market like porcelain, just as fragile and precious. “They’re scales upon scales, angled just right. They catch the light and refract it. You can tell a butterfly is about to die, because it sheds its scales and parts of its wings start going dark.” I brought the cup to my lips and dared to find your eyes, only for a moment. “No color at all, really. Just trapped light.”
“Daisy. Why were you at the hospital, really?”
I have dark spots in me, too. A butterfly losing her scales, and no more light can get in.
“Nothing,” I had whispered. “Just a checkup.”
You wanted to ask me more, and I wanted to tell you. But my voice was dry as a pair of brittle wings, and prying it out would only make it crumble in my fingers.
You left without finishing your coffee. When you stood in the doorway and told me goodbye, I turned impulsively and plucked up one of my specimens, pinned to the bottom of an empty blueberry container.
I had found her drowned in a plastic cup of beer. She already wore her own funeral colors: wings maroon-black, edges banded in white. I dumped the beer and took her home in that little cup. Let her air out. Spread her wings daintily and used a toothpick to make her look as if she was frozen forever in flight.
“I want you to have her,” I’d said. “As a thank you.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“But I want you to,” I whispered.
You held the packet delicately in your hand. Smoothed your thumb over the clear lid. “I’ve never seen a dark butterfly before.”
“It’s called a mourning cloak.”
“Daisy, tell me if you need help.” Your hand squeezed mine. “Please.”
I had hovered there in the light of your stare, my belly lifting and sinking all at once, a boat lost to the ocean. The truth sat heavy under my tongue.
Maybe, if I had more time. Maybe, if the days weren’t down to weeks.
But I am not like the butterflies. I will not die beautifully, light still suspended in my wings as if I’m really alive.
I cannot bear you watching it.
So I forced a smile and said, “Of course I will. Of course.”
And I let you leave.
I quit the next day. Dodged your calls until you simply… stopped.
Only the butterflies keep me company now. On the good days, I still carry down a handful of butterflies to the street market. I stand swaying, dizzy, hoping someone will love them just as much as I have.
Today is not one of the good days. I lie on the couch, heavy-lidded, surrounded by butterflies. Only a few are still alive, and I buy them extra hours of life with little saucers of orange juice and clementine-slivers.
I’ve watched them all die.
Maybe it’s their turn to see me off.
Taylor Rae (Kowalski) is a recently reformed mountain troll who is trying out city living. She holds her Bachelor's degrees in psychology and English literature from the University of Idaho. She can be found in most caves (or, all else failing, @mostlytaylor on Twitter)