The Butterfly Journal

         Violet Parker scribbled a few notes into the journal her sister had created in art class. It was made of canvas paper, folded over and then sewn together using thick, fluffy yarn. The picture on the front was of a butterfly; and for a first-time project, Violet’s sister Lilly, had done a pretty spectacular job. The butterfly looked poised in motion with its wings up, and the watercolors worked together in a way that was reminiscent of Van Gogh. It was truly an amazing painting; and at 12, Lilly had the makings of a fabulous artist.

         Violet, however, was a writer. Lilly knew this, which was why she had given her the book. Lilly would be going to a special clinic for young leukemia patients and had told Violet that she wanted her to copy down every detail of life in their redbrick home while she was gone. Tears streaming down her face, Violet had agreed. At 16, she had a better idea of what was happening than her little sister, and whatever Lilly wanted, Violet would do anything to make it happen. So, sparkly purple pen and journal in hand, she had watched her mother and sister drive back out of the driveway and head down the road in their grey Volvo, and when they disappeared around the corner, she went back in the house to start writing in the journal.







March 12, 2009

You left today. I already miss you. You’re going to get better, ok? That’s not something that’s optional. I love you Lills. And I promise I’m going to document every single moment in this journal. You better tell me how to put paper in here, because this thing isn’t going to last a week.



         



                Violet needed to go back to school. She stepped inconspicuously into the wide hallways of Trinity High School, and leaned her face forward so her hair would fall and cover her eyes. Clutching the journal, she stepped quickly and lightly around all the other bustling students in an attempt to get to her first period. She was good at this, avoiding people; Violet could usually move through a crowd like a ghost, nobody saw her, nobody bumped her; she was invisible and intangible.

         But today was different. At the last minute, somebody changed course as Violet was going to slip around them; their foot caught in hers and they both went head over heels, the journal flying through the air and landing on the ground 5 ft. in front of them. Falling to the dusty tiled floor, the only thing on Violet’s mind was the journal. She had to get to it before it was stepped on. She dove and grabbed it just in time to be too late for some poor person to shift their weight, and therefore, the full impact of the person’s step landed on Violet’s small wrist and a sickening crunch was to be heard down the hallway.

         Violets face went pale. She didn’t feel the pain. All she could think about was the journal. What if she got blood on it? She yanked her injured wrist backwards just in time for a white-hot searing pain to originate in her joint and travel up her arm and down her neck. The pain was radiating, it was nauseating and yet it was blissful relief from her own mind. The throbbing appendage drew her mentality into the now, and left no room for any stray thoughts. Only as a reflex, the protection of the one thing that she had left of her sisters for the time, Violet reached out with her right hand and grabbed the journal. Then she passed out.

         When she woke up, unnaturally groggy from the pain pills, a nurse had her pinned down to a table and was resetting her arm. She felt nothing. Trying to sit up, she realized quickly that it was not possible because of where the nurse was and what position her arm was in. What she could feel, felt like pudding. Useless.

         Useless. She panicked. She was left handed.  The journal, where was the journal!

         She turned her head as quickly as it would go toward the nurse and tried to ask her but as soon as her panic had come, it was again gone and in its place was a dreamless sleep, pain pills had always made her extremely groggy.

         When she woke up again, she could hear the doctor and her mom in the room. The doctor was talking about her weak bones and where her arm had broken. She had snapped plenty of bones before to know the drill. But the last time, it had never hurt that much before, and so much had not been at stake.

         The journal was lying on her bedside table. She rolled her eyes. Boy, wasn’t this going to be a story? Lilly would probably be worried and unsurprised humorous when she read about the incident. The problem was, how was she going to write it down?

         When Violet got home, she placed the journal on her desk with her right hand as she scrutinized her cast. Definitely no way to jam the pen anywhere, the doctors had sealed it up tight. She tried her right hand. Unintelligible scribbles. Well hell, she thought before she spotted her library card perched on her peeling window ledge, let’s type it.