Someone Wicked Comes This Way

Childhood is a special time all on its own. It is the threshold between innocence and sweet ignorance and the heavy burden of the world, that is, to possess the knowledge that not all of the scenic display presented during early life is as pure. There are things that a child should not be exposed to, but, sadly, such matters have already been diluted into the young minds of today's generation through television, books, movies, or social gatherings. By the age when a child is culpably responsible, that child, in this modern era, will have been introduced to certain experiences that will, for better or for worse, alter the course of his or her simple thinking.          

            There was once a family living adjacent to the house I was living in. I was probably six or seven, so I didn't know a lot about them except they had a daughter–– Maddie, I think––around my age. My parents occasionally talked to her parents so I would catch a glimpse of her ever now and then. I never really knew her personally, but from the praises she got from my parents commending on her good manners, I assumed she was one of those nice girls.

            Maddie looked like one of them, too. She had the face of an angel: Soft brown hair curled in ringlets, blue eyes with such a depth that they could pull people into them, and a lovely smile that would come up every time an adult came around. "What a dainty mouth," my parents noted about her dimples. "She could just melt you with them."

            I didn't think that anyone had a negative comment about Maddie. I never heard a single nasty remark pass through a person's lips, seen a drawn back scowl, or sensed a tinge of malice against her. Maddie was the perfect daughter any parent or couple would be proud of.

            One day, on a sweltering summer weekend when the sun seemed to sizzle in the sky like a sunny-side up egg, I was playing on my yard digging up some dirt. It was a typical afternoon, perfect for outdoor exploration. I remember I was doing something on the ground––hunting for worms, yes, that's it. I was fascinated with the squirmy, brown lines that crawled in the holes I made. Every time I saw one come up, I immediately scooped it up and put it into a bucket of mine.

            Collecting worms was just another of my hobbies. I liked to poke into the tiny hills that the black ants would make. I would take a stick and just insert it into the hole, and out would come two or three ants clinging onto it. I giggled whenever one of them fell off, landing on its back with its legs scrambling in the air. It was comical, in my young mind.

            Insects and other creatures were active in this time of day, so I wasn't surprised when a couple of huge butterflies would flit by, their bright, vibrant colors like dashes of ribbons cutting through the wind. I would always try to catch one, running on my clumsy legs as best as I could, perhaps falling down once or twice.

            At last, after some futile trials, I would manage to subdue one, accidentally swiping it out of the air. It plummeted to the grass with a gentle thud, almost imperceptible, the sound of vegetation bending under the slight weight of wings and a body. I quickly covered it with my hands and transported it to the sidewalk, where I could see it more clearly out in the sun's rays.

            It was so beautiful when it was spread out. The butterfly rested helpless and exhausted, its small wings moving feebly. The orange band stood out among the other hues because I liked the color best. I hunched down staring at it for a good twenty minutes when a shadow eclipsed the light.

            "Whatcha got there?" the trill voice asked. It was Maddie. She was standing over me, her blue yes full of curiosity.

            "A butterfly," I answered. "I hit it by accident."

            "Lemme see." Maddie walked around me and squatted down, squinting her eyes in a way that reminded me of a newborn puppy. She cocked her pretty little head this direction and compressed her lips together. She said nothing to me as she stood up and chose a rock of a miniscule size. She tested it out, throwing the stone up and down, up and down, up and down.

            Then the rock flew out of her hand.

            I watched it fly over an arch before it crushed the butterfly's fragile body. There was a sickening crunch as green goo spurted out of the insect. Some landed near Maddie's shoes, and she recoiled in disgust.

            "I hate butterflies," she hissed. And for a split second, I saw the mask Maddie carefully constructed to conceal her true personality slip. In the time between the revelation and Maddie's quick scramble to replace the mask, I saw something entirely different from the delightful child everyone spoke of so graciously.

            "Well, I gotta go! See you later." Maddie skipped away, leaving me to contemplate the horrific act in silence.

            Five minutes later, and I was still staring at the splattered guts of the butterfly. Already, ants had begun congregate around the body, the swarm increasing in numbers as more caught scent of the odors the lifeless body was emitting. The ants marched dutifully, transporting away parts of the butterfly's wings, casting shadows on the ground like sailboats out on the open sea.

            It was only when my mother called me back inside did I realized I had experienced two awful things: The aching fact that life does end, and the fear all carry is the true character of a person.