Chapter four: The shattering butterfly

Trigger warnings for those who need them

substance abuse,

I spend that evening in a pub to make sure I don’t fall asleep.
I keep staring at the menu, dreaming about the drinks I’ll order when I got money to spend.
Dancing used to be my dream.
My passion.
My everything.
That feeling of being a living piece of art. Gliding across the stage and knowing the people are entranced by your beautiful movements.
Enraptured by the story you tell without words.
It was a goal worth striving for.
And so I did.
I pushed myself to become more flexible. Learned more and more choreographies.
When you fall on your ass you get up again. When you fall on your face, you cover the bruises with make up and a smile.
I didn’t mind it.
I was driving towards a goal I would have done anything for to achieve.
If they told me they needed me to cut off an arm, I would.
My own or someone else’s, it wouldn’t make much difference.
I wanted to be the one they looked at.
The one the public admired.
So how did it end up like this?
I guess it started with the fall?
It wasn’t Tashi’s fault.
It was just a stupid accident.
One guy lifting another for the first time. I was just…heavier than he expected.
It makes sense if all you ever lift are underweight girls.
But he buckled and the others weren’t fast enough to catch me.
There was the sound of snapping bone.
The white hot pain.
And then people were yelling at me all of a sudden.
I hadn’t even screamed but the bone sticking out of my leg was enough to make Selena faint.
We all knew it was bad.
I was out of the running for months but the theater was kind to me.
I was a good dancer with a good track record so Barnaby didn’t fire me back then.
He just, held me on until I could start up again.
And I wanted to start up again.
I wanted to dance so badly.
Rolling around in bed. I felt like a bird with the wings torn off.
I wanted it to be over.
Now rather than later.
And I’d give anything for that.
I found it in a magazine.
You’d expect some dark alleyway but no, dressed up in sharp pinks and bright greens, there it was. A rosy-looking cherub, holding a bottle of pills that promise to ‘kill all pains and aches.’ and ‘Get you back on your feet again’.
And I knew I had to have it.
I asked Tashi to get me a bottle. I gave him the money plus some extra for the effort.
He must have known it was a bad idea but I guess he felt guilty enough to do it anyway.
Those pills were practically magic.
Not only did they kill the pain they killed all doubt, all fear, the very notion I shouldn’t be up and dancing right now.
Barnaby said it was too early at first, but even he couldn’t keep me in bed for much longer.
So I started dancing again.
It was good.
Very good!
I just took a pill each morning and danced all day long.
This would have been my future, my new normal.
If those pills hadn’t gotten taken off the shelf for containing ‘dangerous compounds’.
I tried other painkillers.
None of them worked.
I asked the pharmacist to make me up something similar to the pills that worked so well but he has no idea what was in them. His best guess wasn’t enough to get me on my feet again.
Stupid trade secrets.
I almost quit.
Almost.
I mean, there wasn’t much of an alternative at first.
But then the pain came back.
It wasn’t the sharp pain of a broken limb anymore. It was the aching complaints of a wound badly healed.
I couldn’t put my full weight on it for longer than a second.
Which is practically a death sentence for a ballet career.
I tried to bear the pain, hide the discomfort while visiting drug store after drug store looking for a painkiller that worked.
Then one evening, I smelt it during a meet and greet.
A lady who I wasn’t a regular of this hobnob song-and-dance was smoking a cigarette that smelled like my pills.
I was drawn to her like a month to a very intoxicating flame.
At first she looked apologetic when I pointed it out. As if she got caught doing something rude.
She asked me if there was a policy against smoking.
Then I asked her what it was and she understood me.
It must have been something mundane like my expression, maybe my tone of voice but it seemed like magic at the time.
Before I was entirely aware of it she has pulled me next to her and put her arm around my shoulder. She discretely showed me a card-stock box with a row of poppies printed on them and whispered an address into my ear.
I’ve been hooked ever since.
They don’t just give me pain relief.
Not anymore.
They give me life.
They give me a sense of existence.
And now they’ve given me a job.
So whatever it may be.
It’ll be worth it.
I never saw that woman again.
But I couldn’t be more grateful to her.

I arrive back at Theresa’s place at five to three in the morning. The lights are off beyond the door.
I try the handle anyway.
Locked.
I wait. Getting increasingly antsy with every every passing minute.
The hell am I supposed to do if she doesn’t show up!?
She did tell me to be here right?
I’m pretty sure she did.
At least I don’t remember her telling me of any other place to meet.
But I can’t do her shitty job if she’s not here to give me the goods!
It’s already two past three.
Bitch.
“You the new kid?” The man emerging from the shadows is thin and wispy but his voice is legitimately intimidating.
He has the voice of a big guy.
“You’re one of Theresa’s?” I check.
I guess she didn’t say she was gonna be here personally?
The man nods, pushes a package in my hands and tells me. “Deliver this. Don’t look in the box. You have an hour”
“Oh…okay then. Can I ask what’s in the box?”
The man scoffs. “You can ask, but I won’t tell you. Now scram.” He turns around and steps back into the shadows before disappearing completely.
So now I have a box…
I need to read the address twice to believe it.
Number 18.
Theresa wants me to go to the old city centre!?
Where the rich and powerful keep whole houses to themselves.
I wonder who the recipient is.
Someone who doesn’t mind getting packages in the middle of the night at least.
Maybe it’s a party-boy-excentric who throws insane parties with all manner of contraband substances to entertain his guests.
Or some high level maffia boss who climbed the ranks my poisoning his higher ups and ran out of the killing juice?
It’d be a lot of juice if so…
It’s a pretty heavy box.
But one thing’s is certain.
The old city centre is a long way away.
And I gotta get going if I wanna get there in under the hour.

I check and recheck the address on the box just in case.
I don’t want to pull people out of their beds for no reason.
But this should be good.
There’s a silver bell next to the door.
I ring it.
And I wait…
Then I wait some more.
Maybe the weirdo’s asleep after all?
Well shit…does that mean I failed?
Maybe I should just ring again.
Just as my hand reaches for the bell, the door opens.
A middle-aged man looks down at me. Brown hair, brown eyes, white skin, not ugly, nor particularly handsome. Unremarkable in every way. “Delivery?” He asks.
“Delive-yes! Delivery for you, sir.” I hand him the package.
“Thank you.” He sets it down on a small table in the corridor, then asks, “Would you like a cup of coffee?”
“Huh?” I don’t think deliverymen have coffee normally. “No, that’s all right, I should probably go to bed.” I chuckle.
But the man is adamant. “Something stronger then perhaps? How about a nightcap?”
That give me pause. It’s not like I don’t know that going into a stranger’s house is a bad idea.
But you don’t pass up free booze.
At least, I don’t.
“Sure, thanks.”
“Come on in. Mind the step.” He steps aside, inviting me into a long, tall corridor.
“Right.”
Corridors are weird.
What’s the use of a room you don’t use for anything but walking through occasionally.
A waste of space, that’s what it is.
Just something to brag about.

The man leads me to a sitting room that’s far too big for one person.
Does he have a family stashed away somewhere?
Did I wake them up by ringing the bell?
What if someone comes in to ask what’s going on?
“Have a seat, I’ll be right back.” He tells me kindly.
“Okay?” I sit and look around nervously.
This place has an evil atmosphere.
Well, not evil just, really fucking weird.
The room has your standard silk flowers, candlesticks and the like upon first glance. But looking closer, I find the vase is filled with sea shells and the candlesticks seem to be made of gilded bones.
I look up and almost scream aloud at the sight of bats hanging from the ceiling, stuffed and staring at me with beady glass eyes.
Just what is this place?
I know the man told me to sit but I can’t help getting up and inspecting further.
There are mice carved from a white, waxy stone on the mantelpiece and following their gaze I spot a butterfly with stained-glass wings propped up against the wall.
It’s so detailed, like it could fly away at any moment.
“Do you like it?”
I jump up with a start. “Uhm, yes, yes it’s pretty.” I quickly walk back to my seat.
“Thank you, I made it.”
“You’re an artisan?” I ask.
He chuckles. “I’m more of an enthusiastic amateur.” He then sits down across from me and shows me a bottle. “Is vermouth good with you?”
I nod, trying my best not to look too eager. “Yes, please.”
He sets down two glasses next to a pair of unused coffee cups that I only now notice were already standing on the table.
So he was expecting me to come in then?
That’s odd.
But then the cork comes from the bottle and my attention is drawn by the pale liquid and the smell that makes my mouth water.
Now that I’m sitting down I also notice the unnerving patterns laid into the tabletop. There are eyes and bones and kidneys and lungs, like someone pulled a human body apart. Then neatly organized each and ever piece before carving them out of wood and covering them with shellac.
It makes my skin crawl.
The man follows my gaze. “Apologies for the table, it’s a gift from a friend and I don’t dare be rid of it.” The man tells me as he hands me my glass full of booze.
I chuckle uncomfortably “I see.” That’s what tablecloths are for though, I want to tell him.
But I doubt he would appreciate that.
I take a sip from the vermouth instead. It’s rich, complex and it tastes of luxury and excess.
“You know, there’s a funny story attached to that butterfly. Would you care to hear it?”
I nod. It’s easier to drink when it’s not completely silent.
It happened back when I lived in Karadonbu, are you familiar with the black continent?
I shake my head.
“Beautiful nature, fierce creatures and wonderful people. You should visit some time.”
I nod vaguely at this. I can’t even afford to pay rent right now, I’m not planning getaways any time soon.
He waits for a moment, then continues as if there wasn’t a pause at all.
“I met a person, neither man nor woman and they showed me the wilderness with all its wonders, dangers and death. This butterfly is called gebanu in karadonbu which translates to ‘the shattering butterfly’, it has evolved to harden its wings on mineral-rich streams to the point that if anyone bites into it they shatter like glass and hurt the predators mouth. The butterfly dies, don’t get me wrong, but the objective is to get a reputation for future generations.
After the eggs are laid its entire adult life is geared towards that moment, showering its wing in the mineral rich streams. Building up a calcite layer. You must understand it impedes in flying as well, they handicap themselves this way. Just so they can teach a final lesson to their killer hoping it’ll take it to heart. Nature is amazing like that.”
He pauses, sits back in his chair and takes a swig, I wonder if I’m supposed to say something?
“Uhm, yeah, pretty cool.”
“So obviously I had to have one. But my new friend told me in no uncertain terms that I couldn’t buy nor steal one for myself. So this sculpture is the next best thing.”
Another pause. “I see.” I try, hoping he’ll keep going.
“I made many sketches of the creatures perched on tree branches and rocks and after thanking my host a couple dozen times I went to Giogiad to learn how to create a stained glass facsimile.
My tutor was a vain and rude man and we did not get along in the slightest.
But I paid him a lot of money to teach me the craft, so teach me he did.
He showed me how to cut the glass and stretch the lead and slice it up into little pieces.
I told him about my butterfly idea and he called it a foolish endeavour. A glass sculpture doesn’t get the sun streaming through the way a window would. He believed a glass butterfly cannot cast the beautiful patterns locked inside the glass back onto the world. But despite his grumbling I made what I came for. He hated it. I love it. And we parted ways after that.”
“Well done?” I tell him awkwardly. As if he needs my approval of all thing.
The man smiles politely in response. “Why, thank you. Oh I see you’ve emptied your glass. Will you have another?”
Another dilemma.
The booze was good. More than good, it’s the best damn wine I’ve ever had. But I’m about 50% sure I’m going to die by staying here.
I wonder if it would be worth it…
Then look at the wooden cuckoo clock tipping away happily in the wall and decide. “Thank you for the hospitality sir, but I need to get going again.”
“Ah yes, your sleep. Well, have a good night and until next time.”
I chuckle. “Aha yes.”

The outside is dark and cold.
This place is…too vast for Venusia. Neat rows of houses that have neither towers nor extensions.
I walk down the uninterrupted stretch of road in the lonely dark.
And as the wind blows in my face and that strange man’s influence seems to rub off me, I wonder with a start.
Wait. What did he mean with ‘next time’?