My Little Butterfly

Sitting on a blue plush chair, I looked at Dr. Jones who was patiently waiting for me to talk. She was always like this: calm, collected, trustworthy.

“It happened around noon”, I finally said with a sigh. “I remember it clearly because the sun was absolutely unbearable. I was desperately trying to find some shade to regain my composure when I saw it. At first, I thought the heat made me hallucinate-I was so hot that I couldn’t think properly-, but I soon came to the brutal conclusion that it was real when I picked it up. In my hands laid a tiny wooden butterfly with Angèle engraved on its right wing. What astonished me more was not the fact that my name was carved in it, but that the butterfly itself was a gift from my brother. He gave it to me when I was five and wrote his initials at the bottom. Hurryingly, I looked under its body and saw the familiar J.M in cursive letters. How was this possible? That butterfly was made by him and given to me, but it flew away a long time ago. I remember carrying it everywhere I went because it was supposed to represent my soul. My mother used to say that the human soul was like a butterfly; it underwent multiple changes during the course of its life. Afraid that it wouldn’t be able to fly if I didn’t open my window at night, I always made sure to crack it open a little before going to bed. This obsession of mine lasted until I woke up one day and saw that it never came back. I cried so much one would think it was the end of the world. Just like adults, children have their own beliefs and that butterfly was the center of my universe. When I think about it now, it was more than my soul; it was the materialization of human nature. Soon after, my brother died and my mother never talked again about butterflies. It became an unspoken rule between us”.

I suddenly stopped talking, surprised that remembering my brother was not as painful as it used to be. Dr. Jones nodded her head as if she knew exactly what I was feeling.

“Faltering under the blazing sun, I struggled to keep myself from falling”, I continued. “The heatstroke warning I saw on the news before leaving the house briefly rose to the surface of my consciousness and I took it upon myself to find some water. Wasn’t it right here that I last saw a convenient store? Or was it around that corner just there? How did the butterfly appear in front of me? Who left it there? Was it me? It couldn’t possibly be me. I was only five when…the soul…vanished. No that’s not right. I was only a child when the butterfly…my brother…gone forever. I could feel it in my ears, the sound of my heart beating erratically to the uncontrollable motion of my mind. If it wasn’t me who dropped my butterfly than it must have been somebody else. Perhaps another me? I suddenly felt an urge to barf and had to throw myself onto the nearest trash can. I saw some disgusted passersby look my way as I was emptying my stomach in broad daylight. When I finally felt like there was nothing left in me, I continued to walk, remembering vaguely that I was supposed to find some water. I lift up the butterfly, ran my fingers along the right wing, not sure why my name suddenly felt like it wasn’t my own. How uncanny! It was mine for sure, but not at the same time. I suddenly thought about Sigmund Freud because the familiarity of it was what scared me the most. I was not alone. Out there existed a girl that lost a butterfly. Just like myself, she new somebody whose initials were J.M. She had my name. She was here. I remembered reading somewhere that meeting your doppelgänger meant your death was near. Was I going to die? ‘I don’t feel very good’ is what I thought. The heat. The butterfly. My soul. Everything was getting mixed up. If only I could drink something, anything. At this point water seemed like an impossible thing to find. My heavy feet dragging on the pavement, I walked some more before suddenly stopping. I was standing at the corner of a street and coming out of a store at the same time. I was laughing at something somebody said over the phone.”

“What was she saying? The woman on the phone,” Dr. Jones interrupted.

 Her voice pulled me back to reality and I stared at her, eyes blinking in surprise. She gently smiled at me, patiently waiting for me to answer.

“Well I don’t know, but now that you pointed it out I feel like I should”, I said with unease.

 “Don’t worry. I’m just trying to get the full picture here. It’s totally fine if you don’t know. The mind can be very selective”, she added. “What happened next?”, she probed.

 I stared at her, pretending to recollect my thoughts. I didn’t feel like talking anymore, but the silence kept on stretching and stretching…

“I followed her. I was too scared to approach her at first, but I knew she was the one who dropped the butterfly. It had to be her if it wasn’t me, but the more I looked at her, the more she seemed to be a better version of myself. I soon realized that if we actually met, I would be the one to die because that’s how things work in this world. That’s the law of the jungle. The fittest survives whereas the weak…” I couldn’t bring myself to continue. The butterfly. The unspoken rule. The open window. What was left of me? I saw her write something down.

“Do you still have the butterfly?”, she asked with genuine curiosity.

Was she trying to find out if it was real?

 “As a matter of fact, I do.”

“And where is it now?”

Her question hung between us like heavy clouds.

 “It’s by the window. Even though it’s raining today I left it opened. I like the scent of rain on pavement.”

I knew where our conversation was heading. She also knew; she was the one cornering me after all.

“Aren’t you afraid it will vanish again?”

Her eyes were fixed on me. By the time your session was over, the rain had softened to a small drizzle. I left the glass building with a sense of relief. I hadn’t given her an answer. I almost said what she was expecting me to confess, but that would’ve been a lie. I hoped on the bus down the street, unsure about what I would find back home. I didn’t care if she believed me or not or if what I saw was real or pure fiction. What mattered to me the most was the open window in my bedroom. I could feel something in my bones telling me that if I didn’t hurry back I would miss something important. Something was about to change, to transform. It was only a matter of time now. I was certain of it. As soon as I got off the bus I started running through bleak umbrellas. I could already see my house in the distance. If I pushed a little more I could make it in time. Finally reaching it, I slammed the door wide open, ran pass the kitchen and climbed up the stairs two by two. It was happening. I had to witness it to believe it. Out of breath, I reached my room, put my hand on the doorknob and entered without hesitation. In the glowing afternoon light, the butterfly was flying.