The Broken Butterfly

A true story written for my English HSC creative writing piece last year. A tale of loss and pain, hardship and hope.

Amidst the deafening roar of hundreds of bees, a lone butterfly struggled to find her way. She had broken her wing somewhere in the meadow of dreams, and then had been carried off by grappling hands that twisted and shook her until she was dizzy, before finally depositing her in a white wonderland swarming with bees. They poked and prodded, their clinical voices rising with frustration. They strapped her to an ugly white bed and left her alone for hours. Moments before twilight they returned with grim faces to inform her that she would remain here until they understood what had happened to her wing.

She had lost her wing, her only tether to the normal world. Searching, fumbling, wanting, wishing, feeling so close, and yet, never reaching it.

When morning came wonderland was abuzz with noise. Female bees in white uniforms came in and out of her room, chattering brightly, opening curtains, injecting pain into her lone, delicate wing. “How are you feeling today?” the blonde one asked. The broken butterfly shook her head. “That bad, huh.” None of the other bees spoke to her; in fact, they almost seemed scared of their new inmate, as if she were not more frightened of them.

At the hottest part of the day, she hobbled over to the adjoining bathroom and stood in front of the mirror, legs screaming with the effort. Staring back at her was a ghost. Pale, translucent skin set off by large faery-green eyes and knee-length brown hair that had been pulled into a messy braid down her back. The girl was thin, too thin, with hollow cheeks and protruding shoulder blades that hurt to look at. The only thing that hadn’t changed was her height. She felt as Frankenstein felt upon beholding his creation; disgust, fear, horror, and had the sudden impulse to flee.

“Butterfly? Are you in there?” It was the blonde from earlier. “There is someone here to see you.”

Without a second glance at the girl she had become, the broken butterfly stepped back into her reality and came face-to-face with the woman she aspired to be. The blue butterfly stood nervously in the doorway, looking as beautiful as ever. Tears were already sparkling in her turquoise eyes as she stay there gazing at her daughter. They did not move together, embrace or stroke each other’s egos with sad stories. They did not cry or laugh or crumble into tiny pieces. They simply sat side by side, neither touching, neither speaking, but perfectly comfortable.

The broken butterfly felt her mother’s strength wash over her, filling her with a renewed calm and strength. She recalled a time when she was but a sapling, a chic under her mother’s wing, a time when freedom seemed an eternal thing and she had her whole life ahead of her. “Mama,” she used to chirp “I’ll know I’m home when I’m with you.” And the blue butterfly would smile down at her, knowing all the while that one day this would not be; as it was not now.

The reunion of the butterflies was short lived, for the older one had to work to pay the bees so that her daughter could be saved. Even still she wished she could stay longer.

In the coming days the broken butterfly spent much of her time in solitude, counting down the hours, the minutes, until she would be able to fly home, her wing restored. But as nightfall fell on the third day of her confinement she was overwhelmed with a gut-clenching sorrow. She waited until the bees were out of sight before slipping into the bathroom and locking the door. The bees had keys, she knew, but she wanted to feel some kind of security. She avoided the mirror and turned the water on in the shower. Lying down on the cold hard floor, she let loose all the pain and anger and grief she had been holding back since her wing had been ripped away from her. They were violent tears, sobs that wracked her tiny body like waves crashing against the shore.

Finally, the tumult within her subsided and she was left panting in the frigid air, immune by now to the cold seeping into her bones. Everything was wrong. Here the walls were too blank, the lights too bright, the chaos too organized. She missed the warmth of a fire, the sound of clanking plates in the kitchen as her Mum attempted to cook, the smell of burnt toast in the morning. She wanted to curl up in her old French bed, feel the boards dig into her spine, and clutch her fuzzy pillow for comfort. Most of all, she needed to feel the love of that rundown shambles of an apartment, the place she called home.

A knock sounded at the bathroom door, at first hesitant and then more desperate.  Seconds later, she heard the key in the lock and unnaturally loud footsteps on the tiled floor where she lay. “Come on, dear,” a kindly voice said “let’s get you back to bed.” But the broken butterfly had had enough. Turning away from the bee, she ignored her pleas, and held her ground. Through this tiny act of revolt she felt powerful, as if she had some kind of control over own life. She knew it wouldn’t last long. It never did. “What is it that you want?” She wasn’t sure if the bee said it or her mind, but she answered regardless.

“I want to go home.”

In that moment she wanted more than anything to break free of the bonds holding her here, spread her wings and fly away. Instead, she allowed the bees to carry her back to bed, to do with her body as they will. She was broken and lost amidst a swarm of bees.

Hours turned into days, days into weeks, until the broken butterfly lost track of time completely. With no sign of any answers about her wing, she was forced to stay in the white wonderland for longer than expected. The blue butterfly visited whenever she could; bringing white heathers for protection and irises for hope. When alone, the broken butterfly would pull out her sketchbook and eternalise the flowers in ink. Then she would wait for the darkness to come.

One afternoon the blue butterfly did not come. Her daughter waited and waited, lying alone in the white soft quilted bed, her thoughts turning a frightening shade of blue as she gazed up at the ceiling. What if she had been forgotten? Would she wither and die like the flowers on the windowsill, reduced to nothing but a broken memory? Before the loneliness consumed her entirely, she reached for a book that had been left on her bedside table while she was asleep and chose a tale she knew all too well: The Butterfly by Hans Christian Andersen. Nearing the end of the story the Butterfly shares a sort of wisdom only one that does not have its riches can appreciate.

"Just living is not enough...sunshine, freedom and a little flower, one must have."

His tale seems to resonate with her own; their inner yearnings for a freedom they do not possess tie them together. The Butterfly of the story also waits like she herself does; however, it seems he waits too long and misses his chance. Then she realizes that the Butterfly is happy, for he has learnt to live without what he had once so strongly desired.  

Perhaps she too could survive without one wing...

Perhaps someday she would have her own happy ending...

Reviews

[Mizuki Tsukiakari]

Beautiful.

[INeedNerve]

Wow, I loved it, the metaphors and the writing were beautiful. It took me a moment to get into the story but once I did, just amazing.