Killing Butterflies

A sweet, woody aroma wafts into my nostrils and I can't help but inhale deeply. It's fresh, slightly earthy, yet light in a way that it keeps its lingering floral scent, beckoning me to long for more. Lavender. For me and my soul, this flower's perfume is soothing and undoubtedly relaxing. In its embrace, it makes me feel more at home than my actual home.

In this garden of butterflies, where it's always spring season and where the nightingales are evermore chirping and singing, where the birch and oak trees let their branches swing along with the whistling wind, where grass grows evergreen every step I take, I feel at home. Yet, when the scent of lavender, my absolute favorite, enters this domain, I don't feel at home. I feel at peace.

As soon as I hear light footsteps tread into my direction and come to a halt, my lips curl into a slight smile. There it is. The scent of lavender. Warm rays heat up my skin and I flutter my eyes open, only to squeeze them immediately. Contrasted against the dazzling sun, I still recognize the silhouette towering above me. It belongs to the only other person being present in this lonely, evergreen garden.

"Mariposa, look!" he happily calls out in his melodic voice.

I prop myself back up on my elbows, shielding my eyes with my hand. Muerto is standing there, illuminated by the sunlight, accompanied by a swarm of butterflies. Colorful, different shaped wings - blue, green, red, yellow, purple; so many I've lost count - circle and dance around in a beautiful, entrancing waltz. It's as if all those little creatures are drawn to him, initially lured in by his ethereal beauty, staying and sticking to the place where his heart of gold lies.

The sight is beautiful. He is beautiful. Words can't do him justice to the point it's hard to tear my eyes off him.

"They really do like you," I whisper, afraid to scare the tiny creatures away if I dare to raise my voice. If possible, I'd like to feast my eyes on Muerto without him knowing for a bit longer.

Slowly, he kneels beside me. None of the butterflies leave his side. They just silently follow him, resting on his exposed shoulders, his hair and limbs. To me, it appears they're sticking even closer to to he purple fabric, to his skin's lavender scent. I envy them in silence and properly sit cross-legged on the soft grass.

"Seems like it. Take a look at this one."

He inches closer and shows me his hand. One blue butterfly in particular, notably bigger than its peers, sits on his outstretched index finger. Serenely, it flaps its azure wings, but the creature doesn't fly off. Muerto lifts his other hand's finger, but I gently guide his hand away from the little one. My heart skips a beat, but he doesn't seem to notice my slight tremble as our hands touch. Instead, he shoots me a perplexed glance.

"They say not to touch them because of their delicate wings," I explain, suppressing the urge to do just what I warned him not to do. Reluctantly, I let go of his hand and the instant loss of warmth lets me regret my decision. "Their wings are so thin you can risk destroying them with a single touch. When you do, so they say, you're going to have dust on your hands right after."

My thumb instinctively rubs over my index finger. A faint memory of that feeling of thinly coated powder on my skin comes to mind. I know because of the immediate guilt right afterwards to have crushed and hurt something so beautiful, even when I hadn't meant to in the first place. That day had taught me an important lesson: Desire can be destructive, if not handled with care.

"So that's the origin of the myth, then," Muerto concludes with a nod. He lowers his hand to his side. "I better be careful."

I nod in earnest. "Yes, you should."