The Fall of the Butterfly

She walked over the cracked pavement with delicate apprehension. The morning, deathly still, was void of sound. The sky was the color of flamingo feathers, pasted unnaturally in the sky. The sun shimmied its way into view over the heavy horizon, fighting the dense trees crossing the field. A stab hit the woman's chest as she remembered. Smiles, dewdrops, butterflies, all clouding her mind. It was autumn as well, the red leaves feathered out in front of Hegeman. She found herself running up the main driveway as if it were 17 years earlier, yet again late to class because of her friend. Tears glittered as she flew past. At last, she arrived, breathless, in front of the weathered brick building. When she went to the Stony Brook School, she remembered the girls' dorm to be a bit shabby, and she was surprised it was still standing. Even though she was a day student, the woman remembered the building's name well on account of the boarder she spent most of her time with. Barnhouse. Minute differences were made, keypads far more futuristic, a new plaque, and a little memorial with an even littler name inscribed on it. She pushed the lump in her throat down again, as she had done for so long. She removed a small metal insect from her pocket and rolled it in her fingers. The woman sat on the metal set of chairs and let the memories wash over her once more.

"Alice!! You are going to miss the rainbow!" The sniggering and giggling after her comment signified all of the typical teenagers running rampant in the school. I wanted to kill her right then and there, right in front of the chapel. When I told her this, Skye flippantly said, "God wouldn't want me all over such a holy church, would he?" Her big grin told me she was poking fun at me again. God. I hate poking. Suddenly, Clarkson walked by and happily said hello to Skye. I was invisible yet again, especially to cute boys, and even more especially to ones with accents. Why could she talk to them and I couldn't? She was fatter, probably by fifty pounds or so. She was screwed up inside, I knew her secrets. Why her? She said to me once that it was about confidence, and that I should say a hello to them sometime. Skye also said that I was a charismatic and fun person, and that I just need the guts. The thought of me talking to Ivan, let alone Ludwig, terrified me.

As Latin class began, she sat next to me, writing constantly. Skye was a fluid writer; so genuine it was as if words poured from her fingertips. She could draw too, but only with ink. Skye's pet peeve was the feeling of chalk and graphite. It crippled her in a way, she wanted only to type instead of write on a test, and she couldn't stand the charcoal project. I remember her squeals as she rubbed the burned bits on paper, creating beautiful lines accompanied by not so beautiful sounds. Anyway, as she wrote, she completely forgot where she was. Skye forgot the time, the place; all that mattered was that notebook. I wasn't surprised when she began writing today. Mrs. Edelstein, our teacher, came in tempestuously, stirring the papers on even the farthest desk. She said in her heavy Austrian accent, "Class, today we learn 'odisse'." Her normally kind demeanor turned her 400 pounds into 500, weighted down by her anger. "Skye! Use 'to hate' in a Latin sentence." My heart swelled. I felt like getting popcorn and my iPhone to put this on YouTube. Skye rose, calmly in stature, unshaken in voice. "Ego odi morte aliquid pulchra." The words, clear and resonant as a gong, slapped me in the face. I stood, gaping, at how fast she was, at how she could just pick up any problem and solve it, come across any obstacle and overcome it. My face flushed for a second before I Febreezed any trace of my resentment. I gave Skye a reassuring smile as she sat back down. The teacher sat back down as well, completely winded. "I hate the death of something beautiful."

Later that day, she told me she needed to talk to me. I thought little of it, and we walked up the black path past Swanson and behind Field House. Overlooking the track and the basketball court was a tiny bench made of a fallen log. It was a ways back, trees obscuring us as we sat down. As I peered into Skye's eyes, I noticed the peculiarity about them. They were blue-grey with green and gold flecks, a tiny work of art and a miracle in the world of eye colors. It looked as if the painting in her eyes was dripping, a watercolor. I'd never seen her cry. Skye had the look of a small puppy, innocent and helpless, and I immediately was repulsed. How dare she cry? She had friends, good grades, and a creative personality. She even had golden brown hair, often in braids or pinned back to show beautiful loose ringlets. My hand reached out to slap her, but I caught myself and rested it on her shoulder before pulling away. "What's wrong?" "...Everything." "I'm here. You can trust me." And thus, little by little, she poured out the secrets of her soul. Her parents, her seemingly perfect friends, even her grades, all superficial and problematic. Her life, almost gilded, caused my head to hurt. At the end, she told me she was having serious issues with herself. I acted concerned and helped her up, becoming the perfect friend she needed. "Thank you, Alice... you are really an incredible friend. The closest I've ever had." I said nothing in return.