Butterfly Storm {MINOR REVISIONS}

02 || Reality

～·～·～

The next morning found the woman in the living room, fallen into a solitary chair. It was a rugged black color with a high backrest and curved armrests. Tucked away into the nook by the front window, it was Indigo's safe place. A few loose threads sprouted from one armrest—probably from the claws of the previous owner's pet. It was second hand after all. And there was a particular thread that Indigo's subconscious enjoyed fiddling with.

The morning itself was reticent, aside from the neighbor's dog barking at God knows what. With the window ajar, a gentle breeze carried through a bird's melody; soft chirps weaving notes into a ringing void. It seemed to make the ache in her chest a little less. . . constant.

Her night as an ambitious sailor became a memory; a grain of sand passing through the emptiness of a cocoon's grief. There wasn't a tide strong enough to fill the deserts of a hollowed shell, for there were too many rips far too old to heal.

That made her vulnerable. Indigo paused, abandoning the thread. Too vulnerable.

Rising from her chair, Indigo strode deeper into the house, towards the back where the kitchen sat. A petite yet outdated room of pale cabinets that framed around the stove and counter. Passing the island, Indigo switched on the radio. Its hum of voices and themed music filled the quietude.

Maybe the sound of human activity could take her mind off things with the problems of others. In other words, procrastinate dealing with it.

"—eaking news now. We've confirmed another police precinct in NYC has been vandalized with the same message, quote, You're A Wolf In Sheep's Clothing, unquote. This was reported just late last night, and marks the sixth precinct to fall victim to vandalism in the span of two weeks. The police have detained a suspect. They believe the suspect is affiliated with a well-known gang—"

"Hmph! Buoni a nulla mafiosi," grumbled nonna from behind. | translation: Good for nothing mobsters |

Indigo glanced over her shoulder just as her grandmother stepped into the space. Nonna paused, taking a moment to scowl at the morning sun against the opposite wall—though it did make the flowery sequins sewn on her cream dress sparkle charmingly.

The elder took soft steps, immersing herself in the dining room's humble mood that was steps beyond the island. Indigo noted nonna was subconsciously mindful of the slight limp in her stride—not that she'd ever admit it.

"Morning, nonna," Indigo murmured warmly.

Taking her regular seat at the round dining table, nonna straightened out her crinkled newspaper with a snap. "Morning," she mumbled with a sigh. "Dormi bene?" | translation: Sleep well? |

Indigo smiled briefly. It didn't reach her eyes. "Always do."

"Bene. Molto buona," nonna mumbled, adjusting her reading glasses. | translation: Good. Very good |

Indigo flipped the jug switch on to boil the water. Fetching two cups from the dish rack, she prepared their favorite beverages. Even as the radio crackled with semi-static, the female reporter persisted in filling the room with her verbose.

"—ther news, it's been four days since a twenty-six-year-old African-American woman was found brutally murdered in the suburbs of Brooklyn. We don't have many details surrounding the investigation, other than police were made aware of a potential case through an anonymous tip, and it is believed the responding officers found the woman dead in a vacant—"

Indigo paused, feeling the hairs stiffening on the back of her neck. The static-like words fell like drops of rain, their resonance mirroring the haunting ripples of her past. It could've easily been her that night. It should've—no. Screwing her eyes shut, Indigo gripped the edge of the counter rigidly, trying to hide the vulnerability she'd already exposed. Too late.