Tuesday, May 10, 2011

the butterfly collector

I collect women like butterflies.

One must first catch them, but the pursuit is a delightful game on its own. First, the strolling across the meadow, wafting the springtime flowers and the sticky, sweet sap, the humidity, and the quiet commotion of nature. My hawk eyes and ears, searching for fluttering wings resting on a petal. And then the silent walk, the holding of breath, and the crossing of legs. Looking, admiring, smiling at the patterns that swirl and complement on those delicate fragile wings. The last flutter of freedom and then the swift net dropped down and in less than a moment, the creature's fate has changed hands from the gods of Nature to that of Man. The frantic flying, the unknown surroundings. This net, this wire, beating against frail insect body, not moving, not relenting. And then the preparation.

Gentle caresses and soothing tone. Several kisses, tender and deep to make them understand why I must do this to them. Explanations of This just has to happen because I need it, do you understand? I need this. But they never do understand, because like butterflies, they are only interested in escape. They do not understand that only through death can one escape this life of drudgery, of cold harsh looks and prejudices. That's alright though because it doesn't matter if they don't understand. They will still have to die. I used to become angry because they did not want to hear me, they only wanted to scream and whimper. They would tell me they'd give me money or their bodies in exchange for escape. I would spit back at them that what I was doing was letting them escape and that money is dirty and their bodies were more precious than a simple bartering product. They would apologize to me, and though I'd tell them it wasn't their faults at all, it was the others', they wouldn't understand. Beautiful women never understand how precious they are, those humble creatures. But that's alright, because they still have to die.

The process is delicate and precise. The breath labours within the trembling warm body. The blood trickling down the moist, waving hair and pale, marble skin. Bones cracking swiftly and easily under the sure hand of the blade. No screams now because their voices are stopped up with delicious pain. A quiet calm love as you stroke the face and gently touch the dulled eyes. Warm boiling red staining everything and I scoop a drop with my finger. It tastes like heaven. I embrace the frame and press my lips to their lips, life and soul pouring out of them into me and I...

I become alive.

Before the body stiffens, I drive a needle through their hearts and place them upon my wall, an endless array of brightly-coloured, exotic, rare butterflies, priceless and lovely because they have allowed me to feel life through their sacrifices. I stand back and smile, proud and grateful to have loved the world's most beautiful women.


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