Fly High, Butterfly

Chapter Eight

The walls had been his home for years; in many ways they still were. He was always bound to return eventually, despite everything. Casita was always welcoming, letting him into the walls when he wanted, when it could sense something was wrong. It was always a small space, a tight fit, but Bruno wouldn't have it any other way. The walls could even be considered claustrophobic, their wooden sides closing in around whoever dared inhabit them. It provided a strange sense of comfort, knowing this. The walls were an unusual place to hide, perhaps even more unusual to search for someone in.

And here he was again, as always. Back inside the walls of Casita, simply riding it out once again, over and over and over. No one would search for him here, he could stay and wait until the function had ended to remerge, crawling from the shadows. His family would be the only ones looking, and even then, they wouldn't dare follow him into these dark crevices. No one ever did.

Bruno slumped against the interior of the wall, sighing. The Madrigals were holding another event, some sort of social function, which he never considered enough to discern the purpose of. As always, a plethora of people arrived. Perfect. Exactly what he wanted, no, exactly what he needed.

He'd love to blame his gift, his visions, but that wouldn't be fair. It wasn't a matter of magic, it was a matter of him, his problems, his issues, his own mind. There wasn't anything else to it. Reaching his hand down, he brushed imaginary sand off his poncho, the once vibrant and beautiful piece now a tattered remain of its former glory — a reflection of himself. His family had insisted on getting him something better to wear, something new, but he had refused; his current clothes suited him just fine. Already worn, the hem was pulled and stretched more every day, Bruno's nervous hands finding their way there — a habit, probably one of his better ones.

Doing this now, he leaned toward the inner wall, listening to the events outside his self-imposed confines; people were chatting, enjoying themselves, having fun. Already resigned to being left, he had brought himself here, a place he was greatly familiar with. It wasn't that he didn't enjoy the festivities and parties, per say, he just wasn't built for them, they weren't comfortable ground, like his walls, his sand-filled rooms.

It could be put up to the isolation, the ten year loneliness, but to be honest, they never were his forte, even as a child. No matter how the rest of his family tried to convince him, he insisted upon his disdain. He was just an anxious guy, and no one was going to change that anytime soon.

Unkempt brown hair falling on his face, he relaxed back into his position, vaguely aware of the fact he remained looking towards the inner wall, towards the people. Lonely wasn't really a word he associated with himself, but then again, neither was socially anxious, as much as it was true. Maybe denial gives a sense of comfort, helps ease the burden of the fact. He had a great family, how was one supposed to be lonely when surrounded constantly, sharing a house with eleven other residents? What was being failed to be realized, was that it was a matter of how you interacted with those residents, how you got along – which Bruno tried his best to do, he would swear up and down if asked, but he was, as always, a victim of self-isolation, a victim of fear and superstition, a remnant of his upbringing, the aura of suffering always remaining despite the best efforts of anyone. He had been content with staying hidden in the walls forever, resigned to his fate, watching in the shadows, until he had been forced into the light, dragged out to reunite with what he once was.

Self-reflection wasn't something he was fond of – there's a difference between being alone and being alone with your thoughts; Bruno did just about anything not to be left alone with his thoughts, the thoughts about his decisions, what he's done wrong, how he's hurt people. He'd resort to harm, to fantasies, stories and characters of his own design, characters that weren't suffering, weren't afraid or anxious, stumbling over everything they ever had to say, terrified to see what lies ahead.