Thirteen

"Order twenty-seven!" a waitress yells from the take-out counter, order receipt in hand as she scans the room.

Stepping up to the counter, I set my number card by the register. "That's me."

She smiles, peeking into the bag. "Two chicken Alfredo kits with extra sauce and a garlic loaf?"

With a nod, I reach for the bag. "Sounds right."

"Great." Making sure I've got it, she lets go of the bag and steps back as I start to walk away. "Have a good night!"

I raise my fingers in thanks, weaving through the other people waiting for their food. The cold hits my face as my feet meet the sidewalk and I shiver against it. Standing inside made me forget how cold it was out here. We haven't had any snow yet, but I'm sure it's coming. You can almost feel it in the air. I loathe it. Any day we don't have the wretched white fluff is a day I'm grateful for. Thankfully, I don't have to walk far because I'm renting a loft not far from the restaurant.

Opening the front door, I hurry inside, toeing my sneakers off before walking into the kitchen to set my take-out bag on the counter. My butterfly should be here shortly, and I'm supposed to be making her dinner, which is why I ordered takeout. Taking the chicken Alfredo kits out of my take-out bag, I pull out two bowls and start dumping it in. All the noodles go into one and the chicken sauce goes in the other, along with the extra containers of sauce. Setting the oven to one-hundred-and-fifty degrees, I pull the garlic bread out and unwrap it from the aluminum wrapping before sticking it in to keep it warm. Scooping up the containers and foil, I put it back inside the white take-out bag, tie it shut, and shove it to the bottom of the trash can under the sink. Looking at the food on the counter, I mentally pat myself on the back. It may not be the most impressive display, but it's bound to impress my butterfly. I even ordered from the best Italian place in the city.

There's a light knock on the door and I hurry to the front door, taking a second to look through the peephole to verify it's my Aglais io. I smile as I open the door and she lifts her hand with a small, somewhat awkward finger wave. "Hey."

Opening the door, I smile at her, stepping back to let her in. "Hey." I shut the door after her, my hand reaching for the coat she's removed while watching her bend over to slip out of her tall boots. "You hungry? Food is ready but we can wait if you're not."

"I'm actually starving. I missed lunch by accident." Standing straight, she uses two fingers to push her glasses back up her nose. The amber frame highlights the bright blue of her eyes and I take a moment to admire her as she removes her scarf. The pairing is what I like most about her, so reminiscent to the European Peacock butterfly with its amber wings and blue spots. I hang her coat and scarf on the hook as she speaks, "What're we having? It smells good."

She's right, it does smell good, but that's mostly the garlic bread heating in the oven. "Chicken Alfredo and garlic bread."

She smiles. "It sounds good too." There's a dining table set up just off the kitchen, visible from the living room and I walk her there.

Walking back to the living room, I pick up the television remote and turn it on for noise, not bothering to check the channel. "Do you want me to dish you up?"

She rests her chin on her hand, her eyes on the television when she answers, "Sure."

Tossing the remote onto the couch, I walk to the kitchen. Grabbing two plates from the cupboard, I put noodles on the plates, then take the bread out and slice it, adding a piece to each plate. Peeking around the arched doorway into the dining room, I make sure my butterfly is still watching television before grabbing a bottle of strychnine pills from my pocket. Tonight, I'm trying something I've never done before in an attempt to reclaim some of that excitement I seem to be craving lately.

It's slightly nerve-racking that I don't know for certain if this will work or not, but it adds to my thrill. Of course I don't want things to go wrong, but it's exciting to think it might and I'll have to use Plan B to take care of things. Unscrewing the cap on the bottle, I dump half the bottle onto the counter. Using the flat side of my knife, I crush them up until they're the texture of dust, then sprinkle it onto the top of my Aglais io's plate of noodles. Eyeing the powder, I'm not sure how much she actually needs for it to work. On a whim, I dump the other half out and crush it then add it with the rest.

Scooping out the sauce, I pour a generous serving on her plate to hide the powder, mixing it in with her noodles to make sure everything gets coated. Putting the cap back on the empty bottle, I stick it back in my pocket. Using a clean spoon, just to be safe, I pour sauce over my noodles. Grabbing two forks, I set them on our plates before picking them up, careful to keep my butterfly's in my left hand. How disappointing it would be to kill myself while trying to catch a thrill.

I set the plate in front of her, nodding at her "Thank you" while I put my own plate on the opposite end of the table. Realizing I forgot to get us drinks, I start to stand, but she stops me. "Have you heard about this?" She points to the television, and I look over at it. It's the news channel and they're talking about the Rivercrest Landing serial killer. My heart flutters. It's always so fun to see myself on television. I'm practically a celebrity around here based on how often my name gets brought up. "And people are calling the little butterflies he leaves butterfly kisses." She shudders like the thought creeps her out and I frown. "That's so weird."

And that's so rude.

I stop myself from saying anything, watching as she twirls some pasta around her fork. She takes a bite and I hold my breath with anticipation.

"Did you make this?" she asks while taking another bite. At my nod, she picks up her garlic bread. "It's really good, but not as good as my mom's."

I blink at her, letting go of the breath I was holding since it's obvious she isn't about to keel over. I have to say, I hadn't noticed until now how rude my little butterfly was. "Nothing ever is." I take a bite of my own food, watching her fork like a hawk. "You can never beat a mom's home cooking." As if I would even know, my mother had hardly ever cooked.

She points her fork at me as she chews, nodding in agreement. "I think it might just need some more salt," she says around a mouthful of garlic bread.

My palms are starting to get sweaty as I watch her eat, my eyes narrowing with each bite she takes that doesn't make her keel over. Did I not add enough? Did it get diluted with the food? I should have just shoved it down her snotty little throat. "I'll keep that in mind for next time." I try not to snap it at her, smiling to hide the irritation lining my voice. I didn't make the food so her critiques shouldn't bother me, but it annoys me anyway.

I didn't realize my butterfly was fucking Martha Stewart.

I slurp down some of my noodles, my tongue running over my teeth after I swallow. Just when I start to think this whole thing was a lost cause, my butterfly jerks in her seat. Her hands rise to her face as she starts to smile; a hard, forced-looking smile with pinched cheeks. I don't think it's one she's willingly making. Her body starts to shake, her limbs jerking uncontrollably in the chair. Small gurgling sounds are coming from her stretched mouth as her arm knocks her Alfredo onto the floor. I slap my hand on the table, a laugh bubbling up from my chest as she continues to shudder across from me.

And here I was doubting myself. I should've known better.

Her hands seem to have gotten stuck near her face and throat, her elbows jutting out like beautiful broken wings. Her back is spasming, her body only staying upright because of the arms on her chair and the table's edge. My butterfly is purely divine as she flutters in her seat, the bright blue of her eyes shining like orbs of sapphire. Her glasses have been knocked askew on her head, so I push back in my seat, walking over to her. Grabbing the frames, I adjust them on her shaking body, brushing some of the hair from her face that has fallen from her ponytail. "That's better."

Moving back to my seat, I scoot back up to the table and pick up my fork. Taking a bite, I nod at my butterfly. "You know, the food tastes better now and I can't quite put my finger on why." I smile to myself as she rocks and jerks in her chair. "Earlier, when you said the butterfly kisses are weird, that hurt my feelings, Aglais io." I take a bite out of my bread, swiping it through some sauce. "I put a lot of effort into finding my butterflies. Every one of you is special to me. You're all unique and talented. Beautiful." I pick up my last piece of chicken, swiping it through the remaining sauce. Chewing, I watch my butterfly across the table, still fluttering for me. "I love my butterflies more than anything in this world."

Pushing my plate away, I sit back, crossing my finger as I lean back in my chair. "I pick my paper butterflies to match their real-life counterparts. Each fold in that paper is a layer of my love and adoration. Each crease is my undying loyalty. They're my promise to always love you, always cherish you in my collection. Those paper butterflies are a symbol to everyone else that you are mine." I lick my lips, smiling at my butterfly. I knew it would take a good amount of time for her to leave me, but she's a fighter. "As mine, it's my duty to take care of you and keep you safe from the cruel, dark world we live in. The only way for me to do that, is to keep you in here." I tap my chest, two fingers digging into my skin to tap where my heart sits below my ribs. "My heart, where you've always belonged. Forever immortalized. Forever cherished. Forever loved."

I stand once more, walking over to my butterfly still jerking in her chair. Her legs have almost coiled around the chair's wooden legs, her socked toes curled underneath her feet. My knuckles run along her twitching cheek. I can hear her breaths wheezing from between her clenched teeth. It probably won't be long now before she leaves me. "I'm doing this for you, butterfly." A few tears have leaked down her cheeks, a drop forming at the corner of her eye that I wipe away. I smile down at her, so happy with my butterfly's performance. "Before you go, I think you should know the truth." I pause, brushing another tear away. "I didn't make dinner. I bought it."

Moving away from her, I grab her plate of food, then my empty one, taking both to the kitchen. Setting mine on the counter, I pull out the trash can and dump my butterfly's leftovers into the can. Setting her plate in the sink with mine, I grab all the extra food bowls and the garlic bread and throw it away as well. After removing the bag and setting it off to the side, I put the can back under the sink. I rinse off the dishes with the sponge sitting beside the faucet before inserting them in the dishwasher, making sure to set the water temperature to hot and sanitize. Grabbing a spare rag from the drawer and a bottle of all-purpose cleaner, I spray down the countertops and appliances, making quick work of wiping down all the surfaces I've touched.

Walking into the living area with my rag, I wipe down the door handle both inside and outside, spray the remote, clicking off the television before I clean it off and drop it back onto the couch. Moving toward my now still butterfly, I carefully remove her glasses, using my rag to wipe down the frames before placing them back on her smiling face. I wipe down the table and chairs, and even my butterfly just to be safe. Moving back to the kitchen, I wipe off the spray bottle, opening the cabinet with my rag before using it to set the bottle inside and close the door. Lastly, I bring my rag to the washer, setting it to hot just like the dishwasher, using my rag to turn the knobs before tossing it in and bumping the lid shut with my elbow.

Taking my orange-and-blue paper butterfly from my pocket, I find my way back to my butterfly. Her fingers are still twitching on and off, but I know she's been dead for quite some time. Placing the paper butterfly on the table in front of her, I admire her a moment longer. Her performance was stunning, like all of them were. Perfectly executed. I'm pleasantly surprised that my first poisoning went so well, yet I didn't quite reach that level of excitement I've been looking for. This wasn't thrilling. My blood didn't pump in my veins. My heart didn't bang so hard against my ribs that it felt like it might burst. My hands didn't tremble with excitement, nor did I completely lose my breath. All those things that used to happen when I first started my collection.

Backing from the room, I spin on my heel toward the kitchen once more to grab the trash bag before heading toward the door. Slipping my sneakers on, I throw on my jacket and gloves. Opening the door, I lock it from the inside before shutting it. Pulling the loft key from my pocket—already wiped clean and secured in an envelope—I drop it into the locked mailbox hanging by the door. Spinning away, I toss my hood over my ears to hide my head from the cold breeze and carry the trash bag over to the neighbor's bin sitting by their driveway. It'll get picked up by morning that way. Tucking my gloved fingers into my pockets, I start on the five-block walk back to where I parked my car.

I don't think I'm disappointed with tonight, but I'm not satisfied either. I tried something new and despite all the signs pointing to it being what I've been lacking, it just fucking wasn't. I can't shake the hollowness in my gut, can't scratch the itch on my back. I'm missing something but I can't figure out what.

I need more.

But more of what?