Catherine La Mort Papillon [Part Three]

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.

She wanted to leave it all behind.

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.

It was all a dream.

A dream of hands washed in blood.

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.

"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.

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.

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.

The world as her home.

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

She liked Boston clogs to much.

She liked girls in Boston clogs.

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.

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:

On a night like this,

On a night like this I long to rest.

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

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

It was better then seeing girls get the chop.

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.

She loved a French girl.

From Alsace.

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.

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.

The life of a blood butterfly.

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

Her truth.