Fifteen

I dreamt about this. It was one of those dreams that almost feels like a whisper of a memory. Like a sense of Déjà vu. I wasn't going to actually put it into action, but the more I tried to suppress it, the harder it lingered. Like a spot on the carpet, you just can't scrub out. The more and more you scrub, it just gets bigger, spreading further and further until it is worse than it was when you started and simply can't be ignored. I found myself focusing more on the dream and the need to reenact it than the butterfly I'd be adding to my collection. She is still important, just not quite as important.

Maybe my unfixable case of unfulfillment dreamed it up for me as a solution to the problem I haven't been able to fix. It certainly is bound to attract attention. Or, and most likely, I'm teetering on the edge of desperation to feel that thing I seem to be missing. Like slurping down a slushy a tad too quickly, all I can manage is a rapid and short brain freeze instead of the high I'm looking for. I feel like I've left the house and forgotten something, but I can't remember what it is I've forgotten.

This looming in my gut makes me sick.

Finding the butterfly to fit my ideal vision was easy enough. My butterflies always find me. They know they belong to me and eventually always flutter straight in my direction. I'm the dark desire they want, and they don't know why. Usually, I'm their dirty secret as much as they are mine. Not for the same reasons of course, but it works in my favor nonetheless, so I try not to let it bother me too much.

Although my vision for tonight doesn't require that much planning in regard to preparation, it feels important to get as many details as I can right. That includes my Vanessa carduii. My dream didn't have a clear appearance for her, but a blurry idea that she was tall and slender with long brown hair. In a way, generic, but still beautiful like all the butterflies in my collection.

"I think I'm ready to leave." Vanessa carduii links her gloved fingers with mine, her breath puffing out in front of her face. We've been in her neighboring park, looking at the ice sculptures for a while now. It's almost midnight, so the park is quiet and peaceful, the sculptures looming in the shadows of the lamps above. "I'm freezing, look." She flashes her teeth in a wide, grimacing chattering smile.

I smile at her, tugging her closer so that I can loop my arm over her shoulder, our joined fingers resting against her arm. "I agree, it's cold. My toes have been frozen in my sneakers for the last thirty minutes."

She snorts, her other hand adjusting the fluffy hat on her head. "I told you to wear something other than your sneakers in the snow."

I hum in acknowledgment, my eyes trailing the string of Christmas lights lining the fence we're walking past. "You did." My breath curls around my face, trailing behind me as we walk. "I should have listened."

"Do you even own a pair of boots?"

I shrug, letting go of her fingers so I can tuck my gloved hands into my pockets. "Probably."

She laughs, the sound traveling around the empty, cold street. "How do you not know?"

I return her smile, flashing icicle lights glinting in her eyes as we go by. "I don't wear them often enough to know for sure."

Her head shakes, her chocolate-brown braid swinging back and forth with the movement. "You're silly."

I give her a look, but don't respond. Reaching in front of her, I open the gate to her yard, letting her go ahead of me. Following behind her, I watch her open her door and step inside, her hand holding it open for me. Walking in, I shut it with my foot, keeping my sneakers on instead of leaving them by the door like usual. My butterfly hurriedly shucks off her coat and boots, her gloves peeled back and stuffed into her jacket pocket where it's hung on the wall. It's not until she turns to look at me, rubbing her hands together to warm up that she notices I haven't taken anything off.

"What're you doing? Aren't you staying?" Her brow pinches with her question, her eyes blinking at me from the end of the foyer.

Unfortunately for my butterfly, there was one thing that stood out in my dream above everything else. Something I knew I had to do to really make this whole shebang work. I need her fear and confusion. I need her begging and pleading. The thoughts already have my heart thudding as I reach my hand out toward the length of her braid. She doesn't stop me, because she has no reason to, letting my hand wrap up it.

"Is that a yes?"

I shake my head at her, watching her lips part when I tug at the braid harder than she anticipated. Her mouth opens in a surprised "O", a hand instinctively slapping onto my wrist to stop my pulling.

"Ow! What... What are you doing?"

I walk with her, forcing her to come with me by my hand in her hair. She turns awkwardly, stumbling along behind me as she tries to push my arms away. She hits me a few times in the back, but I ignore the short ache, shaking her head a bit to disorient her.

"Stop! What're you doing? Stop!"

I tug her along with me to her living room, ignoring her bellows as we go, knowing my silence does nothing but amp up her fear. I throw her into the gray loveseat there, shoving her chest and forcing her back down when she tries to stand. She looks like she might try to stand again, but I shake my head at her. Her confusion and growing fear make her obedient.

"What is happening? Tell me something!"

I bend, eyes on her as I open the drawer of her side table. I pull out a bundle of nylon rope as she frowns, obviously unaware that I had put it there for this moment.

"What is that?"

She tries to bolt, but I stop her, sticking my leg out to trip her. Her hands hit the floor and she cries out, scrambling to get up and away from me. I quickly grab her hair again, yanking her backward. Letting go, I grab her by the waist and turn sideways to try and throw her back into the chair. Her elbow catches my jaw and I grit my teeth, getting angrier with every second this drags on because of her disobedience. Normally I love a good fight, but tonight, I just want shit to go according to plan. She's stopped trying to speak to me, her words replaced with terror-filled yells and bellows.

She grabs onto my arm once I get her back in the chair, her feet coming up to kick me in the gut. They miss only because I move off to the side, gripping one of her wrists to twist it back in an odd angle as I circle the back of the couch. Her screams ring in my ears, nearly blowing my eardrum as I wrench her head back into the loveseat with my other hand. I had dropped the rope in our scuffle, but I'm able to slide it along the floor with my foot, dragging it to me. Releasing her arm but keeping a hold of her hair, I quickly scoop it up. Risking her getting away, I let go of her hair and quickly toss a loop of rope around her middle. She tries to duck under, but I pull it tight, my foot on the back of the loveseat as I force her to sit. Tying a quick knot, I throw another loop over her, this one squeezing her elbow to her chest so that her hand rests by her face when she tries to wiggle out. The next loop secures her other arm, that one at a more comfortable-looking angle.

Making sure my knots are tight, I walk around the chair, my lungs heaving with the effort that it took. My butterfly is still kicking and yelling, refusing to admit she's stuck. It's admirable really. I hadn't expected her to have so much fight in her. She's still screeching, her screams only stopping long enough for her to draw air into her lungs. I didn't want to have to gag her, but I can't have her waking up the entire neighborhood before I'm finished. Looking around for something to use, I walk back to the foyer and grab her scarf off the hook by the door. I fold it in half as I walk back to my butterfly, quickly wrapping it around her head and tying the ends so that her mouth is covered. You can still hear her, but it's not nearly as loud or ear piercing.

Leaving her alone in the room, I walk through her house to the back, opening the sliding doors onto the patio. Uncovering the barbeque, I grab the bottle of lighter fluid I'd seen here previously, bringing it back into the living room. My butterfly's eyes widen at the bottle in my hand, her legs kicking furiously. She's a smart girl. I'm sure she can see where this is going. Bringing the bottle over her head, I squeeze, the fluid dripping down her hair and shoulders, running over her face so she is forced to squeeze her eyes shut. Her head is shaking back and forth, her body jerking uselessly within her bindings to get free, but I just keep squirting. I spray the fabric of her chair, the floor around her, her side table, the couch, and with the little that's left, her curtains. Tossing the empty bottle onto the floor, I walk over to the coffee table in front of the couch, picking up the candle I'd bought for her last week.

Reaching into my pocket, I pull out my lighter and light it, tucking it back away as I watch the candle flicker in my palm. Watching my butterfly squirm in her seat, listening to her muffled screams, I take out the gold paper butterfly from my pocket and bring it to the flame. This one they won't find. They won't know she's mine, but for some reason that feels okay. Like I don't want them to know about this one. The gold paper starts to smoke, black stink rising before the little paper wing engulfs in flames. I toss it onto the carpet at my Vanessa carduii's feet, watching the carpet quickly light with fire as she raises her legs in an attempt to escape it.

Her efforts are futile, the flames quickly traveling up the sides of her chair and then her legs, the smell of burning flesh and fabric stinking up the room in dark plumes of smoke. I watch the red and orange swarm her body as she shakes her head and listen to the screams leaking through the fabric bound around her head while I stand there holding the candle in my palm. The flames quickly move on to the other objects, wicking like wildfire across the room. It's getting hard to breathe, but I can't get my feet to move, my eyes stuck on my butterfly as she burns in her chair.

I can't feel the heat of the candle in my palm, but I know the glass is warm. The room is also getting unbearably hot. My butterfly stops moving from what I can see through the smoke and flames, so I turn, holding my candle up to the curtain at the edge of the room that has yet to catch on fire. Watching it light up, I drop the candle to the floor and move from the room. Opening the front door, I simply step out, my face immediately burning from the cold sting. I shut the door behind me, my eyes scanning the sleeping street before I start to walk back toward the park.

I know it won't be too long before the fire starts to consume the house and the neighbors wake up. I'm banking on someone to notice and call the fire department. This won't feel complete until I've laid eyes on them. I wander in the shadows of the trees, ears listening for those sirens as I wait. I don't know how long it takes, but they do eventually go rushing by, their sirens blaring, lights almost blinding in the dark. Unable to stop myself, my feet follow them, needing to see things unfold now that they're here.

It hurts to breathe, and my heart is pounding so hard, the anxiousness makes my hands shake. I feel angry despite doing exactly what I wanted. Livid even. It does nothing but confuse me and I find my hands clenching in my pockets as I stomp toward my burning butterfly. I stop when the fire trucks come into view and shift my face off to the side when two police cars go rushing past where I'm standing on the sidewalk. Part of me wants them to see me, wants them to ask if I saw anything, if I know what happened. I almost want to go tell them, a strange nagging in my chest urging to do just that even while my feet stay rooted to the spot by an unseen force telling me they can't know. That they can never know. My mind is warring itself in a way I can't understand.

I did exactly what I wanted. Everything is exactly how it should be, but instead of feeling satisfied, I'm denied once again. But this time it's worse. I can't seem to catch my breath. My fisted hands are shaking so hard inside my pockets that my jacket zipper is jingling under my chin. Shuffling out of view the best I can on the sidewalk, I double over, grabbing my waist as I try to suck in a decent breath. My chest feels like it's caving in, a weight sitting right on my collarbone while my head spins. I don't know what's happening and I don't know how to fix it as my lungs wheeze. A gloved hand slaps onto the fence I'm leaning against, my hunched body shuffling toward the park, my back to the now-raging fire. I almost think I'm having a heart attack with the way my chest is squeezing beneath my palm as I try to jog, back bent so I'm curled in on myself.

Finally making it to the park, I beeline for my car, my lungs slowly starting to gain their ability to suck in air. By the time I get there, I'm standing straight, my heart beating a tiny bit slower than before. I jerk my car door open and fall into the driver's seat, resting my forehead on the steering wheel while I try to keep my breaths steady. My hands are still shaking, trembling in my lap while I squeeze my eyes shut. When I can finally sit up without my vision going blurry, I start my car and pull from the parking spot. I want nothing more than to go home right now. I don't know what this was supposed to prove, why I've reacted this way, but I'm scared to find out.