Catherine La Mort Papillon [Part Two]

Even if one lusts after heads, I could never touch one. I prefer to protect and embrace the innocuous of the Dutch one. For her own life is more of value than my own desires, except for mine to protect.

To think then my love is Catherina Trepa.

To think that I could indeed love at all.

My body is an alien, an invasion of someone else's body into my own. My own desires to protect only I have shown. My fetishes I express I find no answers for their original, only the shame of their taste do express. For me I long for the long flowing dress, the dancer in the night. I long the frightened girl, only to tell her that everything will be alright as the day turns to night.

Because everything will improve. Everything will be alright. For I am there. I am everywhere and nowhere.

I am a paradox of the self. A paradox of the mind.

Shame and pleasure strange bedfellows.

When I see the tears of Catherina Trepa, I find only sorrow in her eyes. And I know not how to deal with these feelings of my own. Her sorrow a sin, if life looping all o'er again. A sin she must not atone. But the sin of her executioners, for her night terrors have nothing else of compare:

And she understand me, and I understand her,

As I caress hair hair, and her coat of fur.

For I am to her a cowgirl with no spurs.

Yet I am no American at all.

For me I fall into dreamlike cityscape.

I find myself in an endless fall.

When she went to bed, she thought of her future. She thought of her time without her room mate, who had been toxic with her and her finances. If only it was so easy to think of it in this way. In truth, she wasn't sure whether she would find any friend back home in Tennessee. And the only real advantage was getting some inter web access when she got "home". Home had never really been home, as she never really had any sense of privacy. Her dad would always comment on her lack of a right to privacy, and would at times open the bedroom door with a lock pick. He would then sneak up, and tickle her toes. She would scrunch up her nose like a bunny rabbit. She was to afraid to smack him in the face.

It is in this context, she thought of the old schoolyard that she used to play in when she grew up. And how as time went on even back then home never really felt like home. For the butterfly, there was no longer any goodnight kisses. In town there was the old Lutheran church from the 1980s, among other tourist attractions that were no more entertaining than watching paint dry. It sure beat the constant uneasiness of her room mate that would always find a way to distract her from her writing life.

At night her room mate would comfort her, with the butterfly having nobody she could trust. She would be crying, curling her legs up in a fetal position dreaming of wolves of yesteryears. Yet the room mate was not as trustworthy as could be, and indeed the room mate even in their most vulnerable hours would find some way to use them for their own personal ends. It is indeed to late now to make amends. And that is why the idea of her room mate being homeless carries mixed feelings that continue to follow her into Smyrna. For the butterfly, there was no more good night kisses to share.

She thinks only of the moonlight that trickles through the window, as she dreams of wolves and vampires in the night.

The butterfly was twenty seven, a year before she was twenty six. It was only just recently she thought of the idea of learning to drive again. It had been prompted by the idea of her wanting to live in an RV, and travel to Canada to visit Montreal. She had always wanted to learn French, but had been concerned about her memory and concentration issues. Her parents had always thought it be more worthwhile to study for the gateway. After all if you passed that, you could go onto college and learn languages later. It wasn't until later when she had wanted to write her most current novel, that she realized how important learning French was. She was a long ways away from the little girl who her dad always insisted on giving a buzz, and would not yet realize she was trans. For the butterfly had not yet sprouted her wings, and her story was not yet over when the old lady sings.

That cliche of life, the butterfly hoped that the lady would sing sooner rather than later. But sometimes suicide doesn't work that way, and she was unsure how easy it would be to hide the fact that she was poisoning herself slowly with bleach. She thought of her mother who would spank her ten times each, and at time grab her bottom like in old times.

It was an easy future to predict.

Her future was always her past. It would be back to the old grind for the little butterfly, who wanted only to sleep. And briefly in her life, she hoped the old lady would weep. Yet nights are so dreary, she wanted to be with someone to call her deary. For she although she was never one for pet names, she wanted to be called a pet night and snuggled with.

At least until the night came to a close.

Many, many, many hours to go.

The butterfly had purchased herself a bag of roll your own. Being told that roll your own was inherently cheaper than buying previously rolled cigarettes, she was skeptical at first until she purchased herself some pipe tobacco. This tobacco was in fact not pipe tobacco, but regular cigarette tobacco marked down in a one pound bag that can last you the greater part of a year if you bought ten, at sixty dollars and fifty cents not included tax. Some regions don't have tax benefits do to a lack of Native American settlements, though some may have their own tax benefits.

For the particular bag she was smoking, it smelled even before than a more expensive variety. The more expensive being such because tobacco is charged by the unit. Buying a single unit drastically marks down the price. And when you're straddling the line between lower middle class and homeless, you better be looking for any kind of deal you can get. It may make the difference between a week of rent owing sixty bucks, and missing an entire week. The butterfly was glad to be out of this situation, however she was unsure what it would be like after the next few months in her hometown.

Mostly likely most of her friends had already moved out of state, but in a few years a high school reunion was coming up. For very specific reasons, beyond the scope of this story of the butterfly's life, let's just say she did things that made her a legend in the minds of her coed classmates, and was unsure how they would take her actually being female.

At twenty seven the butterfly wanted to be a children's writer, but was unsure how to go about it. It had been many months since she had written her two previous complete middle grade novelettes and a half way complete partial. She had written for many years, though this was never acknowledged by her mother who always bragged on her about her potential as an illustrator. True up to a point, drawing for the butterfly was almost as natural as breathing, except now the butterfly breathed a mix of normal air and carbon dioxide that will eventually make her die at an young old age of 59–if she lived that long. So there was only so many years she could get some writing in. She felt as if her old life was returning again.

She left a lot of things behind. At time it felt as if she left everything behind. Everything including her life. The butterfly had wanted to move out of the country, and for now those plans are still on the table with scattered playing cards et the roll of the dice. She still wanted to learn to speak French, but she was unused to even speaking in English let alone another language. And as if last year she had had negative associations with the language ever since she met one girl that had helped her on her last novel. The only good French woman was a dead French woman, and the butterfly was not the one to make that happen.

That, of course, was the job of Marine Le Pen.