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Blood Butterfly
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Writer SarahWeaver6
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  • PG-13: Parents Strongly Cautioned
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Blood Butterfly
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#2
To Be Justin Time
SarahWeaver6
Sep 12, 2017
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8 Mins Read
No Plagiarism!Zl3M69gSEpz0HEjDXa7Fposted on PENANA

It was a few weeks since the butterfly stopped her matchstick burning habit. She liked how the matchsticks could be sharpened into a point, the proper paper needing a rough texture. At times she would prod herself with toothpicks as some form of vice and desire, like some atheistic masochistic shrine dweller. In the dark she waits for moonlight in the daylight hours, and watches as the rain begins to shower.copyright protection4PENANAOr94Erofbu

There are many ways she likes to cook, she had always liked to cook with eggs, and had always wanted to try a new dish ever since she had left her last room mate in Washington, who she would alway ask whether she wanted to come with her back to Tennessee. Although on some level she wanted her to be here, it was more like a parent to their offspring rather than as some romantic interest, as much as her room mate would hate to admit it. The butterfly didn't want experience love, but she want someone to snuggle with. Ideally someone them self who was safe, though not in the way that her room mate referred to as safe. The butterfly had her idea of safe. The butterfly fluttered away into her new life.copyright protection4PENANAXbQ0XX9dPO

The life of a blood butterfly.copyright protection4PENANADpOk38Y0i5

The life of a sex addict, addicted to blood. The fluid of the mother's womb. The indigestible.copyright protection4PENANAF7xPbbgArs

Her truth.copyright protection4PENANA5oDWpBTzPJ

The butterfly found greater affinity for those in earlier times, perhaps on some level because she could get the know the real "them", like the flower girl getting to know the real "soldier" in a fantastic game recently being remade for profits by already rich multinationals. But she wouldn't have to meet them in person, because then there would be cultural barriers. The butterfly was torn between two cultures, always has been. For her, the original idea was go to Japan to get into the Manga industry. But she found drawing sequential art to much trouble at first, because drawing in a way was more like trying to emulate life in a photograph. And there was nothing lifelike in the flow of panels.copyright protection4PENANAns8cMbkKcC

This was despite the fact that despite her having grown up reading manga, she found herself preferring to write prose. Art and Prose were like competing factions fighting for the control of various tropical regions, especially on the inter webs where various cultures could both clash and gel together in a kind of hate/love relationship. The butterfly hated how web comic communities fade out from existence seemingly overnight, and in the times they were around would be disparaging to prose. By contrast the writers would often suggest not drawing your own covers. At times she wanted to build her own website, especially when she was still part of the decentralized dark web. Diaspora of course, has its own way of things. Though at least she could learn some French.copyright protection4PENANAQSKoHWAYw1

Her own view own cultures in meat-space was similar, almost to a fault. For she found the French something to aspire to without that particular fatal flaw, why write dystopian novels when you have ones in the real world. But even then this was infinitely better than Brexit England. Infinitely better than the United States ou Canada. It was like Japan of the EU. Only paved with severed heads, still a mixture of sexual pleasure and remorse. Yet her room mate, despite being abusive in her own ways, always said how fantasy was different from actuality. The actuality of cutting off a pretty girl's head, and holding in your chest in a mixture of crying and ejaculation. The aspect of being male that was always a reminder of the gender she was born with, that was not the real her.copyright protection4PENANAqCq4yPFsou

The butterfly wanted nothing else.copyright protection4PENANAbMWjYJvjuH

She wanted to be the real her. She wanted to be the real her with a culture she felt affinity with, and not the US where she always felt like an alien even among strangers. Landing in a UFO, greeting the world with peace while being stabbed to death with pitchforks, and being so human that cult leaders in splinter cults give you dietary advice et talked you into purchasing negative ion generators in order to clear your sinuses, among other traumas.copyright protection4PENANAWlzGJhCjg9

There were times she attempted suicide, now counting to about four attempts. She couldn't bring herself to tell her friend, the only girl she ever really loved more than love, that she had many problems of her own. She didn't want to tell her how much she loved her, as in that culture generally saying such disqualified you for any love matching. Although certainly there has been Americans that have managed to marry Italians. But that's the Italian's. Very different in France, even in regions that used to belong to the Italians, so she found out from one of her French correspondents helping her etudier en Francaise avec il gentleness.copyright protection4PENANAlGMLLlBrNZ

To many people are way to kind for her, while she goes on a self-destructive path, admiring authors like Silvia Plath. She didn't want to tell her friend the truth.copyright protection4PENANAVZMSjLCO46

It would be to soon.copyright protection4PENANAw0r6HbnkuD

Yet in the darkness of her heart, there was something that kept her going as her life was going slow toward a final stop.copyright protection4PENANAtPkgB6Bcxp

A dream of a lost Mme.copyright protection4PENANActoYlHJXvO

A dream of a happy girl. A desire to watch and see how things unfold, even if that meant it was a kind of love she could never have. Her own friend's love.copyright protection4PENANA42Pv8wGvRb

It was Ami's love.copyright protection4PENANA9k1uBCAcO7

The butterfly didn't like character studies, though part of it was her own innate greenness. As green as the cap she wore that reminded her of the Irish, before it somehow in her mind reminded her to much of the French.copyright protection4PENANAB0AZZWHJTc

But even if she went to Ireland searching for fairies and marigolds, there was a certain portion of French people that lived there. But for so long her main issue had been with French-Americans, not the country of France. One of the girls she had known in fifth grade always referred her as "not quite cute, but not quite ugly." It was a matter of frustration, the long windiness of saying ugly-cute in a long drawn drawn out fashion. She began to hate, specifically French girls, with a passion.copyright protection4PENANAyXfntnUaTL

Even now the butterfly browses the inter webs, searching for ways to know whether a French girl likes her, as it was never something she could tell. She only knew how to know when a sarcastic girl liked her, and she knew lots of them.copyright protection4PENANAm36nxH07TO

After all, everyone is sarcastic, at least most of the time. Especially at fancy diners under the moonlight.copyright protection4PENANAevPPuOLbyF

It effected her view of classic entertainment like Phantom Of The Opera, despite the author himself being known opponent of capital punishment. She began to want them all to be beheaded, and had a preoccupation for the topic. Especially for cute girls that visited Gothic fashion stores. And then she met a girl named Liver, and for a moment even so early questioned her fantasies for blood. And then she turned to the wrong television channel.copyright protection4PENANAo6DDu61ohU

A woman placing her neck on the block.copyright protection4PENANAaDYg1vX1CR

That was all she wrote. The butterfly disliked the idea of rescued princesses. In her mind what good did that do for Levier who she couldn't save. And her imagining the Mexican girl's anguished face put in her a personal torment she could never leave. She didn't believe in happy endings.copyright protection4PENANAPRmFGRur22

It never really worked that way. At least she refused to believe that it would work out that way.copyright protection4PENANA6r9J5DQ628

Perhaps that why she drank bleach.copyright protection4PENANA1cLZsNvqO7

To wash away the tears.copyright protection4PENANAhEYEjFvN7x

Even after all these years she still hates the girl from fifth grade, but it has become increasingly a distant memory. The butterfly is not sure whether she'll meet a nice French girl. She wasn't sure how to feel about French girls, truth be told. She didn't want to become a slave to anybody, fly by airplane and get sold. She remembered the mother of the boy infused with alien cells in one her favorite Cyberpunk games. His mother would say "I want you to find a nice girl, that will take care of you."copyright protection4PENANAQeZ0X4DObF

It was hard to explain how she didn't trust the British, it was different from how she didn't trust the French. She masturbated to Joan Of Arc, yet spat at Ann Boleyn. And yet every other girl she liked in history and fiction had a name similar to Ann. But Christmas Songs always carried manifold sadness: it reminded her of how Santa would always refer to her by her male name, and she never got feminine gifts of any sort. As well, as she got older, she thought of nothing but Ann Boleyn, whose song written by Henry VIII had its lyrics rewritten for some Christian song. She always liked witches, but for whatever reason never Ann.copyright protection4PENANAWdRIdkvIKj

The butterfly couldn't even mend her own wings.copyright protection4PENANAQ1YPFhub5B

She didn't think anyone else would have the energy to do so. And take the time to listen.copyright protection4PENANAIWPIWNNACY

For broken wings...copyright protection4PENANAfzc7hprN7c

Nothing but silence.copyright protection4PENANA7Ye5NTnh5s

Her aunt got her some French videos, perhaps things might look up from here. Maybe not, and even if she knew French, there was still that woman that wanted to hold a referendum for the death penalty. The butterfly didn't want to have capital punishment anywhere.copyright protection4PENANATOpJwlxjW9

She wanted to forgive herself.copyright protection4PENANAicJuj0TLO1

And show her face to the world. Perhaps a new adventure, where she can be like the little fourteen year old going on an adventure to see the world, visiting ghost ships, and being followed by a young girl with a puffy sidekick that goes poof, poof, poof. She withdrew from her childhood favorite.copyright protection4PENANAXVZb0N5n5a

Her only joy in the world.copyright protection4PENANAQYYfIvBgOx

Her own escape. To be:copyright protection4PENANAq7J9B3avOY

Just in time for dinner,copyright protection4PENANAwMTwYUj4io

Under the glow of restaurant lights.copyright protection4PENANAf9nep6J0my

Slowly eating under candle lights,copyright protection4PENANAyMFiVgl5La

The young adventure waves good by to father,copyright protection4PENANA3iXXPVS90b

It wasn't worth saying goodbye to mom,copyright protection4PENANAyfkWtJ2cKo

Nobody wants to avoid the world.copyright protection4PENANALibqB6HWcs

For the butterfly, she was just in time. To acknowledge the cloudiness of life. Just in time for diner. But she likes spicy food, and doesn't have red hair. She had long curly brown hair. It was a Grandia. To not let PTSD control you. Or listen to the drole of alien viruses eating your memories away.copyright protection4PENANA6gL4eBZ6K0

She wanted to live her way. She could be her own computer hacker, her own misty eyed fourteen year old, and her own memories she can rely on herself.copyright protection4PENANAhifCfImhV6

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