Butterflies

Butterflies

Seven a.m. The alarm clock rings, its sole purpose being to drag me
kicking, screaming and cursing from the pleasanter, and less dangerous,
alternate reality that is my sub-conscious. The maternal unit-I find
mother to familiar a word- this woman who gave birth to me is a
stranger to me, as I am to her shouts, " C'mon, up you get. The early
bird catches the worm! " and then exits-her role in the opening act is
brief.

" The early bird catches the worm ". I've never liked that expression.
If early birds catch worms I'd rather stay in bed until teatime, thank
you very much! If I hear that expression again, I may be forced to harm
someone.

I drag my sleepy carcass out of bed, bed, the safest place on Earth;
its duvet of " mithril " turning away the blows of things that go bump
in the night -and day. My feet turn, against my will, towards the
mirror. I look into it and it clouds over. Disappointment sets in as it
does every morning, when I regard the monstrosity that is me.

Today I am worse than usual; I must have had a restless night. My hair,
for starters, is sitting in such a way that not even Nicky Clarke could
hope to imitate; with its gravity defying angles and knots a boy scout
would be proud of. I sigh again, shattering the ever present dream
that, one day, the term " beauty sleep " will become a reality.

The weather outside reflects my mood: it is dark and dreary- no hope of
sunshine today. The wind whips up the sea, adding fuel to its aquatic
fire, as it fights frantically against the cliff walls which bar its
way.

Nine am. Act two begins; school. School is a place in which desire to
survive spawns betrayal and negates truth. School is a place in which
the strong survive and the weak are forgotten. The weak become shadows,
living in the twilight, scarcely visible except for their eyes, eyes
that shine with loneliness, and which are constantly burning with the
futile hope that, one day, one day soon, caterpillars will become
butterflies.

The strong live in a day-glo, technicolour world, a world bathed in
light, their refined, symmetrical beauty radiates around them,
fluttering like a fiery rainbow.

I used to be one of them; the strong; a butterfly, symmetrically
beautiful, until they turned on me.

It is the hope of every caterpillar to be accepted into the " popular "
group, a group which ensured strength, prosperity and survival. Nobody
with intact sanity would ever want out of the group, nobody, that is,
except me.

On reaching my sixteenth year of existence on this ever diminishing
Earth, the superficiality and monotony of the group started to
suffocate me; being in the group had become being confined to a cage
without bars. They could not see the pain they inflicted upon others;
oblivious to the selfish hurt they caused. I had to get out.

Their minds, brainwashed by Vogue, could neither process nor comprehend
my decision, but they let me go-and then betrayed me.

Their actions made sure that I would not be a survivor, that the
remainder of my school years would be a constant struggle to stay
afloat. I became invisible, less than a shadow, I lived in darkness. I
was shunned by Them, and the rest of my peers- who followed Their
example: the dumb leading the blind. For six months I lived in silence,
every word I uttered was absorbed by the darkness, my actions went
unnoticed, until last night.

Last night They had band practice after school, They are such a
clich?-
" band practice "? Why not make it " cheerleading practice "? I used to
be the singer in that band. My voice would carry high over bass, drums,
guitar, keyboard and crowds. Not any more! It was time They were
silenced too.

I am smiling now, remembering how the gymnasium They practised in was
wreathed in flames, flames that encircled the building like an aura,
flames that I caused. I can still hear their screams of terror as they
realised they were locked in. I can still smell the stench of their
burning flesh polluting my nostrils as their screams ceased and the
crackling of wood took over. The school was in mourning today.

Four p.m. The final act: homecoming. I return home. My spirit feels
lighter than it has in months. The shadow has been lifted, my voice has
been renewed and the world is becoming colourful again. I did not
expect this, I expected to feel remorse in some form, but the feeling
does not come.

As the police car drives away I gaze out of its rear window: the sun
has broken through the clouds and I am bathed in light. The sea is
calm- its fire burnt out. A butterfly flutters past on the breeze, its
wings beating steadily. It is asymmetrical, beautiful, unique, like
me.