Here's a story I wrote for a competition (Scholastic Art & Writing Awards). I already submitted, but comment any suggestions anyways!
I feel like I should cry, but I don’t. My face dry of sorrow, I perch on the chair next to your hospital bed, wallowing in memories. The memories, sweet like sugar, warm me up and fill me like a made up reality.
I glance at your face. I should see your pale skin, your blue eyes closed, the veins trembling on your cheeks, but I don’t. Instead, I see your face, sparkling with happiness, the trace of cinnamon on your lip giving you away as the cookie thief. I see you laughing, dancing around the living room wearing fairy wings and a tutu. I am losing myself in all these Mariposas, each one the same and different.
The high sounding wails of the machine pierce into me, and the Mariposas fall out of my mind so quickly that I startle, feeling empty without them. Reality- and not my made up one- falls upon me heavily, and I sink into the chair, my fingers gripping the side of your bed.
“Mariposa?” I say your name. My words sound loud and heavy, sinking into the room. I imagine the syllables sitting on your chest, your rib cage cracking as the weight breaks your hollow chest. Your face is so empty of anything that I can’t believe it’s even you.
The door opens, and a torrent of doctors spill in, talking.
“Is she okay?” I ask, so tentative and quiet that no one hears me. I look back at you. White gloved hands are cradling your face now, taking your pulse and adjusting the tubes that run into your skin. I shudder. Morbidly, I see your flesh slipping off your bones, your small skeleton disintegrating into dust.
“Is she okay?” I ask again, my voice growing with tension. Nobody responds. Nobody turns their head, nobody stops their hurried hustling around your bed, nobody even looks at me.
“Is she okay!?” I finally shout. A bubble of relief bursts through my body as my words explode. My voice torpedoes through the room and sinks into the floor as the doctors stare at me in surprise, finally noting my presence.
“Should we tell her?” one of them whispers to the head doctor, who purses her lips and sighs.
“We need to move her to a different room,” she says in a clipped voice that clearly means, this-subject-is-over.
“Can I come?” I ask, strangely calm, as my head throbs rhythmically.
“Honey, she’s in a really fragile state. Like a butterfly, you know? That’s how delicate she is right now. I don’t know if you should...” her voice trails off in my mind. I don’t hear anything, except for the word ‘butterfly’, fluttering inside my brain, turning the switches on and lighting up my dimmed mind.
I remember.
Rewind.
Your first word was ‘butterfly’.
By the time you were six, I could’ve said without thinking that butterfly was a synonym for you. Somehow, you had grown into it, like the three year old who becomes obsessed with princesses. Only it wasn’t quite that. It was more as if you had found a magical pair of shoes that fit no matter how your feet changed.
Maybe if Mama and Papa had convinced you then to grow out of it, none of this would have happened. None of my hatred for your totally controlling butterfly obsession would have been born. The unseen, previously bridged rift between us wouldn’t have formed. I wouldn’t have left the dress. We wouldn’t have argued. And maybe...it wouldn’t have happened.
Fast forward to the summer you were seven.
Once, at Wal-Mart, Mama saw a dress whose pattern was that of a monarch butterfly’s wings.
“This dress would be absolutely perfect for Mariposa,” Mama said, smiling widely.
“No, it wouldn’t.” I grumbled. The dress made me sick, all of those butterflies.
“It’s beautiful,” Mama argued. As much as I wanted to hate it, she was right. The dress was beautiful, made of silk and colors and lace, beautiful and light like freedom itself.
“It’s stupid.” I said brusquely, combing my mind for persuasive insults.
“Don’t be difficult,” Mama said. She stared lovingly at the dress, her thumb smoothing the material.
“It’s expensive,” I continued, my mental list growing.
“It’s only fifty two dollars. She’ll love it,” Mama said to herself as she pulled it off the hook and placed it in the cart. Dismissing the subject. Anger welled in my chest. Mama never bought anything that beautiful for me, not to mention expensive. When I was in my obsessive purple stage, she didn’t even stop to consider buying the most gorgeous purple dress for me. Why you? What was so special about you, and what was so special about butterflies?
Following Mama out the store and to the car, the rage ignited, furious and burning. As we neared the car, I thought of a plan.
“I want to put the bags in the car,” I announced, my eyelashes batting away sweetly.
“Okay,” Mama said, “then we’ll trade jobs this time. I’ll put the cart away, and you load the car.” I nodded in agreement, grinning widely. Mama smiled. She had tried to trade jobs before, but it had never worked. Finally, I was okay with switching, which must have been why Mama left without a second thought.
As soon as Mama wheeled the cart away, back to the store, I hurriedly dumped all the bags in the car, except the one containing your butterfly dress. After Mama’s back disappeared into the brick building, I took the bag and ran down the parking lot, leaving the bag between the noses of two black cars. Seeing Mama reappearing from the building, I snuck back to the car and climbed in.
“You didn’t close the back trunk,” Mama said through the open car window.
“Oh,” I feigned surprise, “I must have forgotten.” I held my breath as she went around the back and slammed the trunk lid shut. When Mama returned, her face was blank of knowledge of what I did. Knowing that I had gotten away, something bubbly in my stomach rose to my chest and evaporated, leaving me with a feeling of giddy triumph.
Why did I think leaving your dress would change things for better? If I could go back, I wouldn’t do it. I’d change my mind, change my words, change myself. You were perfect, flawless, sweet; it was I who needed changing. But what do you tell yourself when you can rattle off a list of things you could’ve changed, and know that you’re eternally helpless?
Fast forward to the argument, before everything, before this.
You said, “look at the butterflies!”
Your words hung like crystals in the air. The butterflies, furry and clumsy, darted close to our faces and away, quick and elusive. For a moment, it almost seemed true, it almost seemed as if there really were butterflies. But the snide little voice in the back of my head snickered loudly, and the butterflies turned back into ugly grey moths that bustled away as the morning sun rose.
“Those aren’t butterflies,” I said, unable to resist the urge to set it straight, for the billionth time.
“They are!” you exclaimed, your jaw setting stubbornly.
“They’re moths,” I insisted, rolling my eyes.
“They’re not,” you said again, but your upper lip twitched and tears formed in the corners of your bright eyes. Your face crumbled, and the little crystals of your words fell from the air and shattered over your feet.
“Moths,” I said smugly, one last time. Spinning around, your hand flew up from your side and hit me hard. My cheek stung with your attack, but the shock in my brain stung more.
“They’re butterflies to me!” you cried. “You just can’t see anything, and you keep killing them! You’re a mean, stupid, butterfly killer. They’re my butterflies, and you’re not allowed to hurt them!” You gasped for breath in the stifling heat of your words. “I hate you!” you cried as your last argument. Turning, you flew out of the door and ran sobbing into the driveway.
That thing, pent up in my heart for years, rose to my head and expanded, filling me with a painful lightheadedness.
“I hate you too, you and your stupid butterflies that don’t exist!” I shouted out the window as you ran down the driveway. Contempt filled me, bubbling angrily. All these stupid butterflies, these stupid flying creatures, and your stupid imagination, I had enough. This was not going to take over my life! With these angry thoughts, I consoled myself. “The stupid butterflies can’t die because they’re not even there! I hate you!”
The words, they hurt.
If only I could take them back.
Fast forward to a day ago, on the phone with Mama.
“You let her run outside.” Mama cried, her tearful voice pulsing in my ear. “Why? Why? Did you two argue?” Silence. I was numb, a silent statue, begging for forgiveness while dangling, momentarily saved, over the chattering jaws of your butterfly obsession. And over my head was the guilt, bearing down slowly as I watched myself disappear. “You did, didn’t you?” Mama’s voice rose. Slowly, silently, I put the phone down in the cradle, as I tried to cry for you.
Rewind.
I glanced out the window, hearing Mama’s voice in my head telling me, never let your sister run out on the street by herself. Opening the door, I called to you, the anger lingering in the back of my throat like a bitter medicine..
“Mariposa!” I shouted. You were halfway across the street. Turning, you stared at me, while tears were running down your face. “Come back!” I shouted again, but you shook your head stubbornly. It was like you shook time to a gradual stop, as the silver car practically came out of nowhere. In slow motion, I heard myself scream. My legs felt as lead as I pounded down the driveway, towards you, all anger forgotten. The feel of the cold, mocking earth against my knees didn’t shock me as I fell to a stop, tears streaming as the car squealed into you. The echoing thump burst through my ears. With my sinned body sandwiched between the laughing earth and justifying sky, I looked down and never looked back up, since where else could you look, if your tiny, insignificant life had just caused a black hole to surround an innocent little girl?
Fast forward to now.
They’re wheeling you out of the room. It seems to tear somehow, like if I were ripping a bandage off, and I run after you, sobbing. Through the door, down the hallway, up to a great white elevator. I try to squeeze in, but it’s too late, and the doors slam shut after the group of hurrying doctors. How pathetic I must look, slamming my fists against wood while tears run down my face like waterfalls.
“Please,” I beg, and like magic, the room fills with butterflies, butterflies of rainbow colored wings and gold silver sparkles. Butterflies more real than anything I’d touched, or felt, or seen. The butterflies fly around the room, neatly in formation as they sweep around and around. I remember everything I had scoffingly said to you, denying the existence of your butterflies, and cry harder as the beautiful butterflies crash in chaos and fall to the ground, one by one. The sound of their wings beating helplessly against the floor seems to be repeating all of my unbelieving words. As the last butterflies float helplessly down, pulled by some invisible force, I cup my hands around one and feel its heartbeat tickling my palm as I pull it close to my chest.
How do you admit you’re wrong?
People say, “Start by saying sorry.” But what if you can’t? What do you do, if you need to say something bigger than the universe to the one person you can’t? What do you do, if the only thing that could save you was a simple sentence that can’t be said? And what do you do, if your words won’t change anything? What if your actions have become too heavy for words to lift?
And if only you were here, then I’d ask you:
What if we could go back, and restart from the I love yous?
I feel like I should cry, but I don’t. My face dry of sorrow, I perch on the chair next to your hospital bed, wallowing in memories. The memories, sweet like sugar, warm me up and fill me like a made up reality.
I glance at your face. I should see your pale skin, your blue eyes closed, the veins trembling on your cheeks, but I don’t. Instead, I see your face, sparkling with happiness, the trace of cinnamon on your lip giving you away as the cookie thief. I see you laughing, dancing around the living room wearing fairy wings and a tutu. I am losing myself in all these Mariposas, each one the same and different.
The high sounding wails of the machine pierce into me, and the Mariposas fall out of my mind so quickly that I startle, feeling empty without them. Reality- and not my made up one- falls upon me heavily, and I sink into the chair, my fingers gripping the side of your bed.
“Mariposa?” I say your name. My words sound loud and heavy, sinking into the room. I imagine the syllables sitting on your chest, your rib cage cracking as the weight breaks your hollow chest. Your face is so empty of anything that I can’t believe it’s even you.
The door opens, and a torrent of doctors spill in, talking.
“Is she okay?” I ask, so tentative and quiet that no one hears me. I look back at you. White gloved hands are cradling your face now, taking your pulse and adjusting the tubes that run into your skin. I shudder. Morbidly, I see your flesh slipping off your bones, your small skeleton disintegrating into dust.
“Is she okay?” I ask again, my voice growing with tension. Nobody responds. Nobody turns their head, nobody stops their hurried hustling around your bed, nobody even looks at me.
“Is she okay!?” I finally shout. A bubble of relief bursts through my body as my words explode. My voice torpedoes through the room and sinks into the floor as the doctors stare at me in surprise, finally noting my presence.
“Should we tell her?” one of them whispers to the head doctor, who purses her lips and sighs.
“We need to move her to a different room,” she says in a clipped voice that clearly means, this-subject-is-over.
“Can I come?” I ask, strangely calm, as my head throbs rhythmically.
“Honey, she’s in a really fragile state. Like a butterfly, you know? That’s how delicate she is right now. I don’t know if you should...” her voice trails off in my mind. I don’t hear anything, except for the word ‘butterfly’, fluttering inside my brain, turning the switches on and lighting up my dimmed mind.
I remember.
Rewind.
Your first word was ‘butterfly’.
By the time you were six, I could’ve said without thinking that butterfly was a synonym for you. Somehow, you had grown into it, like the three year old who becomes obsessed with princesses. Only it wasn’t quite that. It was more as if you had found a magical pair of shoes that fit no matter how your feet changed.
Maybe if Mama and Papa had convinced you then to grow out of it, none of this would have happened. None of my hatred for your totally controlling butterfly obsession would have been born. The unseen, previously bridged rift between us wouldn’t have formed. I wouldn’t have left the dress. We wouldn’t have argued. And maybe...it wouldn’t have happened.
Fast forward to the summer you were seven.
Once, at Wal-Mart, Mama saw a dress whose pattern was that of a monarch butterfly’s wings.
“This dress would be absolutely perfect for Mariposa,” Mama said, smiling widely.
“No, it wouldn’t.” I grumbled. The dress made me sick, all of those butterflies.
“It’s beautiful,” Mama argued. As much as I wanted to hate it, she was right. The dress was beautiful, made of silk and colors and lace, beautiful and light like freedom itself.
“It’s stupid.” I said brusquely, combing my mind for persuasive insults.
“Don’t be difficult,” Mama said. She stared lovingly at the dress, her thumb smoothing the material.
“It’s expensive,” I continued, my mental list growing.
“It’s only fifty two dollars. She’ll love it,” Mama said to herself as she pulled it off the hook and placed it in the cart. Dismissing the subject. Anger welled in my chest. Mama never bought anything that beautiful for me, not to mention expensive. When I was in my obsessive purple stage, she didn’t even stop to consider buying the most gorgeous purple dress for me. Why you? What was so special about you, and what was so special about butterflies?
Following Mama out the store and to the car, the rage ignited, furious and burning. As we neared the car, I thought of a plan.
“I want to put the bags in the car,” I announced, my eyelashes batting away sweetly.
“Okay,” Mama said, “then we’ll trade jobs this time. I’ll put the cart away, and you load the car.” I nodded in agreement, grinning widely. Mama smiled. She had tried to trade jobs before, but it had never worked. Finally, I was okay with switching, which must have been why Mama left without a second thought.
As soon as Mama wheeled the cart away, back to the store, I hurriedly dumped all the bags in the car, except the one containing your butterfly dress. After Mama’s back disappeared into the brick building, I took the bag and ran down the parking lot, leaving the bag between the noses of two black cars. Seeing Mama reappearing from the building, I snuck back to the car and climbed in.
“You didn’t close the back trunk,” Mama said through the open car window.
“Oh,” I feigned surprise, “I must have forgotten.” I held my breath as she went around the back and slammed the trunk lid shut. When Mama returned, her face was blank of knowledge of what I did. Knowing that I had gotten away, something bubbly in my stomach rose to my chest and evaporated, leaving me with a feeling of giddy triumph.
Why did I think leaving your dress would change things for better? If I could go back, I wouldn’t do it. I’d change my mind, change my words, change myself. You were perfect, flawless, sweet; it was I who needed changing. But what do you tell yourself when you can rattle off a list of things you could’ve changed, and know that you’re eternally helpless?
Fast forward to the argument, before everything, before this.
You said, “look at the butterflies!”
Your words hung like crystals in the air. The butterflies, furry and clumsy, darted close to our faces and away, quick and elusive. For a moment, it almost seemed true, it almost seemed as if there really were butterflies. But the snide little voice in the back of my head snickered loudly, and the butterflies turned back into ugly grey moths that bustled away as the morning sun rose.
“Those aren’t butterflies,” I said, unable to resist the urge to set it straight, for the billionth time.
“They are!” you exclaimed, your jaw setting stubbornly.
“They’re moths,” I insisted, rolling my eyes.
“They’re not,” you said again, but your upper lip twitched and tears formed in the corners of your bright eyes. Your face crumbled, and the little crystals of your words fell from the air and shattered over your feet.
“Moths,” I said smugly, one last time. Spinning around, your hand flew up from your side and hit me hard. My cheek stung with your attack, but the shock in my brain stung more.
“They’re butterflies to me!” you cried. “You just can’t see anything, and you keep killing them! You’re a mean, stupid, butterfly killer. They’re my butterflies, and you’re not allowed to hurt them!” You gasped for breath in the stifling heat of your words. “I hate you!” you cried as your last argument. Turning, you flew out of the door and ran sobbing into the driveway.
That thing, pent up in my heart for years, rose to my head and expanded, filling me with a painful lightheadedness.
“I hate you too, you and your stupid butterflies that don’t exist!” I shouted out the window as you ran down the driveway. Contempt filled me, bubbling angrily. All these stupid butterflies, these stupid flying creatures, and your stupid imagination, I had enough. This was not going to take over my life! With these angry thoughts, I consoled myself. “The stupid butterflies can’t die because they’re not even there! I hate you!”
The words, they hurt.
If only I could take them back.
Fast forward to a day ago, on the phone with Mama.
“You let her run outside.” Mama cried, her tearful voice pulsing in my ear. “Why? Why? Did you two argue?” Silence. I was numb, a silent statue, begging for forgiveness while dangling, momentarily saved, over the chattering jaws of your butterfly obsession. And over my head was the guilt, bearing down slowly as I watched myself disappear. “You did, didn’t you?” Mama’s voice rose. Slowly, silently, I put the phone down in the cradle, as I tried to cry for you.
Rewind.
I glanced out the window, hearing Mama’s voice in my head telling me, never let your sister run out on the street by herself. Opening the door, I called to you, the anger lingering in the back of my throat like a bitter medicine..
“Mariposa!” I shouted. You were halfway across the street. Turning, you stared at me, while tears were running down your face. “Come back!” I shouted again, but you shook your head stubbornly. It was like you shook time to a gradual stop, as the silver car practically came out of nowhere. In slow motion, I heard myself scream. My legs felt as lead as I pounded down the driveway, towards you, all anger forgotten. The feel of the cold, mocking earth against my knees didn’t shock me as I fell to a stop, tears streaming as the car squealed into you. The echoing thump burst through my ears. With my sinned body sandwiched between the laughing earth and justifying sky, I looked down and never looked back up, since where else could you look, if your tiny, insignificant life had just caused a black hole to surround an innocent little girl?
Fast forward to now.
They’re wheeling you out of the room. It seems to tear somehow, like if I were ripping a bandage off, and I run after you, sobbing. Through the door, down the hallway, up to a great white elevator. I try to squeeze in, but it’s too late, and the doors slam shut after the group of hurrying doctors. How pathetic I must look, slamming my fists against wood while tears run down my face like waterfalls.
“Please,” I beg, and like magic, the room fills with butterflies, butterflies of rainbow colored wings and gold silver sparkles. Butterflies more real than anything I’d touched, or felt, or seen. The butterflies fly around the room, neatly in formation as they sweep around and around. I remember everything I had scoffingly said to you, denying the existence of your butterflies, and cry harder as the beautiful butterflies crash in chaos and fall to the ground, one by one. The sound of their wings beating helplessly against the floor seems to be repeating all of my unbelieving words. As the last butterflies float helplessly down, pulled by some invisible force, I cup my hands around one and feel its heartbeat tickling my palm as I pull it close to my chest.
How do you admit you’re wrong?
People say, “Start by saying sorry.” But what if you can’t? What do you do, if you need to say something bigger than the universe to the one person you can’t? What do you do, if the only thing that could save you was a simple sentence that can’t be said? And what do you do, if your words won’t change anything? What if your actions have become too heavy for words to lift?
And if only you were here, then I’d ask you:
What if we could go back, and restart from the I love yous?
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