A Butterfly's Kiss

Prologue

I spent most of my life alone. Deprived from experiencing and reciprocating any form of what they call love. Though there were people around me, they never tried an ounce of effort to understand a troubled child. Everyone would think I'm a freak for being so blank and never interacting with anyone.

Children of my age would attempt to bring out a reaction from me, going as far as dragging me like a ragdoll. I was full of bruises and wounds but the elders bought the story of me attempting to escape by climbing the gates of the orphanage. Adults would coo at me for a few seconds then talk shit about me after turning their backs on me. I could feel their distasteful glares boring holes into my back.

Clarita Orphanage is where I would be taken care of after my parents abandoned a useless child. No one bothered to explain nor help me understand how I got into that stuck-up place. The earliest memory I have of them exists in the abyss. There was never one. All I know is that I never deserved love.

Caregivers have tried to set me up with families visiting the orphanage but I never showed interest. Or at least, I never wanted to have a family. Each time a family would attempt a conversation, I cower and shut my mouth. If I did deserve a family, I would never end up in this place.

I knew how to speak but never bothered to until I was around 10. Melissa was a younger playmate who the caregivers praise for being good at reading and writing at such a young age. After being chosen for adoption, she went up to me with an arrogant smirk and told me,

"Maybe if you learned how to talk, you would have a family by now."

To which I replied,

"I would have cut your tongue if I wanted to."

Her agape mouth was the last face that I remembered and pain was the last feeling I remembered. The caregivers punished me for being rude to Melissa who was crying loud like she has a megaphone in her throat. I guess acting was one of her many talents. That night, they locked me up in the darkest room in the corner of the house while my back was wet with blood, trickling down to my skirt when the clothes from my shirt is full of blood. They really poured out their emotions in every strike of the whip. Porridge and water were my food for the rest of my life there.

Four years have passed, I remember I was sitting on the swing, the noise from the children playing was blurred as I gazed at the family from across the street. They were grinning from ear to ear as they whispered useless things to each other while eating ice cream. It felt like my whole world came to a halt. The next thing I knew, my eyes were wet with salty water dripping coming from my eyes.

The cold wind of the night caressed my cheeks, as I pushed my legs to run far away and fast as I could from the shithole children have called home. If a home can bring you so much pain and distress, I never want one.

I learned to live with the pain of living with the shadows that haunt me in every step; like a predator eyeing its prey, ready to pounce at any sign of vulnerability. What does one have to lose when they possess nothing of value?

Here I am, 10 years later, still miraculously alive repeating the same old routine. I had no such thing as a home and family, yet I managed to exist. In the poorest, shadiest, and dirtiest side of town, where neglected people were thrown, I managed to find myself an abandoned apartment with a torn-up bed, shattered mirror, and all things essential but less convenient to live with. Thankfully, a river exists a few walks away from the rundown place which leaves me with food and safety to worry about.

Criminals are scattered around this place and it's a fucking curse to be a woman. Enough experience with harassment and stalkers has led me to learn how to defend myself by fighting back. Even if that meant spilling blood and selling the loser's organs. I've shed enough blood in my own years to take away someone else's so easily.

It was so vivid. The blood dripped in my fingertips as my blade pierced deep through a predator that had been raping young teenagers regardless of gender. Did he deserve to die? If he did, why did God even bother making such a man? I spat on his lifeless body before continuing in my merry day.

In my years of being alone, I learned how to survive in the worst way possible. Begged for normal people in the streets, stole anything valuable from strangers, and even went as far as selling my body to buy decent clothes. Pretty ironic right? There was also a time when I depended on drugs to quench my hunger and numb all my senses. That's why I'm surprised I am still alive.

I'm a loser, a whore, a fucking failure.

The cold midnight breeze brushed against my skin, giving me goosebumps as I stood on the ledge of the building. At a distance, the city looked like a sea of stars from the blinking lights at night. I feel like a fucking god looking over its people. It has become a favorite past-time of mine to climb on buildings to feel its unwelcoming cold wind.

Long strands of my dark brown hair were diminishing my view of the city as it flew along with the wind. The whole city was quiet compared to what it is in the morning. Only a few echoes of cars rushing by and drunk people from a party can be heard rustling in the empty streets. Most people are asleep or at home. Few unlucky ones are working for an undetermined future, hoping that they'll one day have enough money to quit their job and have a decent life.

I gazed down at my worn-out shoes to see cars moving like little ants on the road. Adrenaline rushed throughout my whole body at the thought of my body on that road as blood slowly spill around me. No one would even spare me a blink if I did. I have nothing. What's there to be afraid of?

All it takes is one step and you will be free.

Ah, there it is. That little voice in my head that knows me better than I do. Is it God talking to me? or maybe his demons? The orphanage taught us that God could communicate with us in many ways like the little voice in our heads. I don't know if I had gone crazy but the voices became louder right after I escaped that place. Either way, it seemed everyone wanted me gone.

Exactly, what's there to live for?

I forced out a bittersweet laugh. And raised the bottle of half-empty alcohol I held in my hand,

"A toast, to a life where everyone will forget!"

"Cheers, indeed."

Just as she was about to lift her leg and drop into the abyss of hell, a deep gentle voice replied to her death message.