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Papillon

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  My eyes opened, they stared blankly at the ceiling. The floral patterns on the curtains rotated as the wind blows. I could feel my back twitching, like something was coming out of it. I remembered the night you put a thorn into my back, nourishing it with your saliva. I remembered your odour, the feel of your hair on my chest.

   I looked at my left, complete darkness. I put my feet on the floor, shattered glasses cut deep into my flesh. The pain flowed through my nerves and reached my brain, but it didn\'t seem to detect it. In spite of the glasses in my flesh, I staggered on. Why were there shattered glasses on the floor? My nightgown was stained with blood, rosy red blood. Everything flowed like a forgotten river, nice and slow. My sight was blur.

   I reached out for a glass. It sent chills right down my spine when I touched it, it was ghastly cold. It fell from my weak hand and shattered, causing a mess. I looked behind, the shattered glasses under my bed had gone, replaced by the shards of the glass that fell from my hand. My head started to ache. I closed my eyes, your pale countenance danced into my sight. It scared me.

   Water ran down from the tap as I turned it on. I devoured the tingling, cold water. It cured my dry lips, but I didn\'t seem to feel anything at the inside. The liquid just vanished. I couldn\'t taste the tingling, sweet water in my throat. I tasted blood and phlegm. What had happened to me? This had to be a dream. Then I heard somebody calling me. I turned to the pictures on my wall. The people in there, my grandmother, my great-grandmother, My great-great-grandmother, were whispering to me. I walked towards the pictures, the glasses still in my flesh.

   The wind blew harder, my hair went with it. My body felt light. I could almost feel myself floating. The voices had gone. The people in the pictures ceased moving. This must be a dream, it had to be. I was going back to bed, when a figure in my ancient vermeil mirror appeared at the corner of my eyes. I looked into it, I studied it. The figure appeared to be me, myself. But what I could see was a butterfly, with bloody red wings. A Red Admiral.

 

Previous short story:
Timeless
Next short story:
Tomorrow
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tomkiddo

Hi, Im Tom and I write and draw!
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