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Blood Butterfly
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Writer SarahWeaver6
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  • G: General Audiences
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  • PG-13: Parents Strongly Cautioned
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The Story Of A Butterfly
SarahWeaver6
Sep 12, 2017
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10 Mins Read
No Plagiarism!bBKIwOp1jA3l0H6vO2gYposted on PENANA

When she went to bed, she thought of her future. She thought of her time without her room mate, who had been toxic with her and her finances. If only it was so easy to think of it in this way. In truth, she wasn't sure whether she would find any friend back home in Tennessee. And the only real advantage was getting some inter web access when she got "home". Home had never really been home, as she never really had any sense of privacy. Her dad would always comment on her lack of a right to privacy, and would at times open the bedroom door with a lock pick. He would then sneak up, and tickle her toes. She would scrunch up her nose like a bunny rabbit. She was to afraid to smack him in the face.copyright protection5PENANAKj8XsrhCBK

It is in this context, she thought of the old schoolyard that she used to play in when she grew up. And how as time went on even back then home never really felt like home. For the butterfly, there was no longer any goodnight kisses. In town there was the old Lutheran church from the 1980s, among other tourist attractions that were no more entertaining than watching paint dry. It sure beat the constant uneasiness of her room mate that would always find a way to distract her from her writing life.copyright protection5PENANARMmBvSqVUJ

At night her room mate would comfort her, with the butterfly having nobody she could trust. She would be crying, curling her legs up in a fetal position dreaming of wolves of yesteryears. Yet the room mate was not as trustworthy as could be, and indeed the room mate even in their most vulnerable hours would find some way to use them for their own personal ends. It is indeed to late now to make amends. And that is why the idea of her room mate being homeless carries mixed feelings that continue to follow her into Smyrna. For the butterfly, there was no more good night kisses to share.copyright protection5PENANAvX5wEc2tej

She thinks only of the moonlight that trickles through the window, as she dreams of wolves and vampires in the night.copyright protection5PENANArYCAW51dHC

The butterfly was twenty seven, a year before she was twenty six. It was only just recently she thought of the idea of learning to drive again. It had been prompted by the idea of her wanting to live in an RV, and travel to Canada to visit Montreal. She had always wanted to learn French, but had been concerned about her memory and concentration issues. Her parents had always thought it be more worthwhile to study for the gateway. After all if you passed that, you could go onto college and learn languages later. It wasn't until later when she had wanted to write her most current novel, that she realized how important learning French was. She was a long ways away from the little girl who her dad always insisted on giving a buzz, and would not yet realize she was trans. For the butterfly had not yet sprouted her wings, and her story was not yet over when the old lady sings.copyright protection5PENANAYzpkaUcAQ6

That cliche of life, the butterfly hoped that the lady would sing sooner rather than later. But sometimes suicide doesn't work that way, and she was unsure how easy it would be to hide the fact that she was poisoning herself slowly with bleach. She thought of her mother who would spank her ten times each, and at time grab her bottom like in old times.copyright protection5PENANAkl4pRJCUcQ

It was an easy future to predict.copyright protection5PENANAdEPPfLUgYC

Her future was always her past. It would be back to the old grind for the little butterfly, who wanted only to sleep. And briefly in her life, she hoped the old lady would weep. Yet nights are so dreary, she wanted to be with someone to call her deary. For she although she was never one for pet names, she wanted to be called a pet night and snuggled with.copyright protection5PENANATWbjhleuW4

At least until the night came to a close.copyright protection5PENANABhpFHhojbB

Many, many, many hours to go.copyright protection5PENANAaogZevK8MJ

The butterfly had purchased herself a bag of roll your own. Being told that roll your own was inherently cheaper than buying previously rolled cigarettes, she was skeptical at first until she purchased herself some pipe tobacco. This tobacco was in fact not pipe tobacco, but regular cigarette tobacco marked down in a one pound bag that can last you the greater part of a year if you bought ten, at sixty dollars and fifty cents not included tax. Some regions don't have tax benefits do to a lack of Native American settlements, though some may have their own tax benefits.copyright protection5PENANAKGGVZYhdse

For the particular bag she was smoking, it smelled even before than a more expensive variety. The more expensive being such because tobacco is charged by the unit. Buying a single unit drastically marks down the price. And when you're straddling the line between lower middle class and homeless, you better be looking for any kind of deal you can get. It may make the difference between a week of rent owing sixty bucks, and missing an entire week. The butterfly was glad to be out of this situation, however she was unsure what it would be like after the next few months in her hometown.copyright protection5PENANAh3vHJcY8wa

Mostly likely most of her friends had already moved out of state, but in a few years a high school reunion was coming up. For very specific reasons, beyond the scope of this story of the butterfly's life, let's just say she did things that made her a legend in the minds of her coed classmates, and was unsure how they would take her actually being female.copyright protection5PENANAKGz0FNwqVi

At twenty seven the butterfly wanted to be a children's writer, but was unsure how to go about it. It had been many months since she had written her two previous complete middle grade novelettes and a half way complete partial. She had written for many years, though this was never acknowledged by her mother who always bragged on her about her potential as an illustrator. True up to a point, drawing for the butterfly was almost as natural as breathing, except now the butterfly breathed a mix of normal air and carbon dioxide that will eventually make her die at an young old age of 59--if she lived that long. So there was only so many years she could get some writing in. She felt as if her old life was returning again.copyright protection5PENANAaGYQCYOUch

She left a lot of things behind. At time it felt as if she left everything behind. Everything including her life. The butterfly had wanted to move out of the country, and for now those plans are still on the table with scattered playing cards et the roll of the dice. She still wanted to learn to speak French, but she was unused to even speaking in English let alone another language. And as if last year she had had negative associations with the language ever since she met one girl that had helped her on her last novel. The only good French woman was a dead French woman, and the butterfly was not the one to make that happen.copyright protection5PENANA8ulEb4Radn

That, of course, was the job of Marine Le Pen.copyright protection5PENANAkX4TYJGuaC

The butterfly, as a blood butterfly, had fantasies of decapitated women. But this fantasy was a mixture of artificial pleasure and sadness. For despite her being drawn into the glow of digital sexuality, she found herself also increasingly disgusted by the idea of herself liking it when others fall. At times she wanted to be the one to fall, if for no other reason than to avoid a high school school reunion. That was her old life.copyright protection5PENANAMkjLbVK0PW

She wanted to leave it all behind.copyright protection5PENANAhYrDCCItNV

But life wasn't a clock. You couldn't rewind. She wanted to rewind back to her childhood, if for no other reason to dream of wolves and to face her own fears about herself. She wanted to be the one that slashed the wolf.copyright protection5PENANAR7TV1RFIlP

It was all a dream.copyright protection5PENANAl8aEUlzFlp

A dream of hands washed in blood.copyright protection5PENANACDn3gZFYts

When the butterfly spent time at her old home, she slept on the couch for as long as she could. She could only think of one word: Home.copyright protection5PENANAUlANgCEWk0

"Home, ... home, ... home." That was the only word she could say, as she reclined and listened to the old pod casts she used to enjoy, along with the reminders of Christmas, that had made her attempt suicide for the first time on her birthday in May. It was a lot of bull, but a Bull that for once ... perhaps for a little while, that could take. She had gone without sleep for the longest time since she ran out of sleep medication. She also took medication for acid, though in the time spent in Milton, Washington she had not had problems with irritable bowel syndrome.copyright protection5PENANAMF9Wj3iTJE

Something to barf about indeed. All this was gone in the time she spent in Washington, and yet her old room mate made all their money run out. It made her want to shout, for the butterfly had no idea how poorly such a homely lass could spend the butterfly's money along with her own proceeds. She thought of all the tobacco that was spent, and how The Flower got her into the smoking habit. That's one smoking blood butterfly. The butterfly would at times try to distract herself from her own fantasies, part of this being topics about UFOs. Despite her room mates insistence on not indulging in the topic, she still found herself against her better judgment at times out of curiosity drawn to videos about local sightings, among other topics evangelicals tend to refer to as woo.copyright protection5PENANAilhFoyF4x8

She was constantly awake, yet constantly asleep. A kind of constant paradox that keeps her from functioning during the day. It had been this way since the month of May. Birthdays, along with Christmas, always carried a kind of sorrow. It reminded her of reminders of the fact that despite hormones, despite bottom surgery, she could never be the girl she always considered herself to be. The butterfly dreamed of being a modal for cover magazines, in fantastical locations like Alsatian Tennessee, yet with the hints of being on the coast of Myrtle Beach, Fenwick Island, and Cote d'Azul. She wanted to travel the world in a single location.copyright protection5PENANAxru7eKKTH4

The world as her home.copyright protection5PENANATtK2q36IXQ

The world only in her mind. Yet her ideas of fashion would never match the idea of what mainstream programming considered such.copyright protection5PENANAmfbEUzczEJ

She liked Boston clogs to much.copyright protection5PENANAIbacjpX3iE

She liked girls in Boston clogs.copyright protection5PENANA8c8SfyWmhT

At twelve o'clock she would prepare lunch, generally Rouge Omelets Sandwiches and a glass of Merlot. Unfortunately no Chianti with beans, though she certainly like to hiss in the Cuisine. She wasn't sure why she still tried doing such, while she masturbated to cute girls dressed like the dutch. Sometimes life rhymes that way, as she goes along her merry way and flutters off into a sea of confusion and torment when she cuts herself to drip her own blood, just a little bit, into the omelet along with fine wine. All this activity on a day of hardly ever going outside of your room. Indeed, it had always been this way since she was eighteen.copyright protection5PENANAcD8nh3XuDC

She still feared the day the nightmares would come again, nightmares of strange shapes in the night, of headless aliens that would mount her in her sleep. Although better a hot alien princess that a human girl that looks like Princess Pig. Just with curly blond hair and not such pink skin. She thought of the old nightmare she used to have, and thought of a lullaby to make them go away:copyright protection5PENANAelNoy7Ovb6

On a night like this,copyright protection5PENANAajjjbyR8U9

On a night like this I long to rest.copyright protection5PENANA17Mau4dszR

Give me my solace, do your best so I now sleep.copyright protection5PENANA4NcScLZ0ga

For the butterfly that longed to get a normal sleep, she wanted to turn back the clock of time.copyright protection5PENANA6ruqKGYCOT

And rewrite Mr. Clocktime.copyright protection5PENANALQ0y0vDeXc

It was better then seeing girls get the chop.copyright protection5PENANA52ZiVc3Vck

She wanted take them with her to shop for shoes. At times in her fantasies she would no longer feel horny seeing girls being decapitated, and when she did saved them because she didn't want to. To live in spite of herself. In spite of her own torment, in spite of everything she had ever known.copyright protection5PENANA5jLAJwgI84

She loved a French girl.copyright protection5PENANABTUBsV7594

From Alsace.9Please respect copyright.PENANAV3ZHDJdUrl
copyright protection5PENANAif7ix2uBXG

54.225.26.154

ns54.225.26.154da2
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