A Serenade of Butterflies

Prologue
It was said that when two souls found each other in love; from their love a spectacle would emerge. A symphony of butterflies. Delicate wings aglow with the hue of passion. These ethereal beings born of purity would take flight in a mesmerising display. A testament to the bond between spirits. Radiant beauty; a serenade of butterflies.

Prologue
Lepidoptera is the scientific order of insects that includes butterflies and moths. These insects are characterised by their membranous wings covered in colourful scales, which give them their distinctive appearance. The name "Lepidoptera" is derived from the Greek words "lepis," meaning scale, and "pterá," meaning wing. Lepidoptera is one of the most diverse orders of insects, exhibiting a wide range of colours, patterns, and ecological roles. 180 000 species have been described, making it the second largest order of insect.
In the marvel of metamorphosis butterflies undergo a breathtaking transformation. An acclamation of evolution. The process begins with the caterpillar weaving itself into a cocoon, a sanctuary. Within its sanctuary the specimen undergoes revolution. The caterpillar’s body liquefies, and gives way to a new form. Slowly, a delicate butterfly emerges. As it stretches its wings, the butterfly embodies the beauty of change.

1

I open the blinds and let the sun invade my room. The blinds are soft and the rings give a rattle as I split the linen sheets. My bed must be made, teeth brushed quick and proper. Hard to believe a month has already passed since the new year. Of course, it hadn’t been a big thing for me. I stayed in. Sat square on my window sill and wrote. I remember I had written about the fireworks I could see from my window. How they sounded. How they shone. I ripped that page out, but I had stored it. My grandparents owned a grand house not 20 minutes from school, in central London. The Literary institute of London. It was quite the boring school, really. Professor Bennett was the only majestic thing about that school. How could one man contain such great words, I always said to myself (actually I wrote it.) Him and that Dr Clarke. She was a right beauty. Her confidence and flare, her pride and her attractiveness. ’47 years young,’ she’d always say when asked how old she was. It was the type of thing you find hard to believe. Not in a manner of surprise but with genuine scepticism of the statement. They had both recognized my work as something out of the ordinary even for such a school. Bennett always said the same thing when he read a new one of my works. ’Great, this is. But.’ And then he’d go on about the pride I have for my work, my talent, seeping through into every word, and every sentence. ’Pride is the killer of a good piece. You give it so much life and then you bury it in dirty pride.’ He’d always say in his teachings. Like a painted brick house. I admired Profesor Bennett greatly. He wrote in rough, brutal words, with beautiful descriptions that would make old Mabel turn in her grave. Mabel only read the bible, and she dubbed Shakespeare a barbarian. Bennett was careless though. If he wasn’t, he’d be a hypocrite. I mean, he’d always go on about pride and its detriment to literature. So of course he’d write in an unapologetic, flawless manner. Once he read me a segment he’d written up the night before. ’A bird in the sky. High in the trees. Its wings were oak and its body spruce. Some bird.’ It rang well and I thought of it for days. Tried to capture the essence in my own work. But I failed. He laughed when I told him. ’If you try to capture the essence of my art, you will stray even further from it.’ Of course. He meant that trying to replicate it was the opposite of the point he was trying to make. Pride. It wasn’t as easy as he made it seem though. And another thing; Dr Clarke did not write without pride. She wrote as if she was performing for a live audience and the cheers were enchanting her to keep writing. She knew she was good. Complimenting her almost offended her. As if you had said she didn’t know she can write. She said my work lacked confidence and boldness, but nothing else. She also loved to poke fun at Bennett’s sheepishness. If I could write half as prideful as Clarke, and half as undaunted as Bennett, I could write as bravely as any author, and with the confidence of any top seller. But of course, those two cannot co-exist. They did, outside of literature. It was weird. Like if Churchill and Hitler up and had dinner. They’d always be at lunch together. In a scientific institute two polar forces sat together and talked about something that seemed irrelevant. Clarke spoke with her flare, and Bennet with his artistic words. They were both spectacular in their own way.


I got home after school yesterday and decided I’d nap. I slept for so long I missed my chance to write. I would not write beneath artificial light. It almost felt a disrespect to the words, to be lit up by a bulb. I had decided I wanted to go into the garden and sit in the moonlight. I put on a pretty skirt and white socks up above my ankles. I had a dressing shirt I’d stolen from Thomas. Thomas was the favourite of cousins. He smelt nice and he dressed well. He was interested in my books and he had aura. Most other people I grew up around were like Mabel. Horrible. Like Charles. Charles was older brother to Thomas, but they could not be more different. Thomas had charm and kindness and he was tall, about my age. Charles was 4 years older. He had ginger hair like their dad, and he was shorter. His face was freckled and with the angry frown he always had his face looked ridiculous. I’d laughed with Thomas about it, a few times. He was also rude and snappy, snobby. But, I digress; I decided I wouldn’t sit on the little bench in the garden tonight. It was too wet. Instead, I took a walk. ’I’ll be short,’ I’d told grandma. She looked up and gave a sort of displeased look, but looked back at her book without protest. I rushed out the door then, onto the street. This was the night of what I like to call the discovery. It was as if I was a small mass travelling without direction through space; and there he was. Seeing him, it was as if I had suddenly been thrown into a gravitational field. He was my sun. I had an orbit after that. Even though I wasn’t chasing him, I kept him on my mind; in my work. It was a simple interaction. I was skipping about quite recklessly, and as I turned a corner, I collided with him. And a black hole was formed. I was falling backwards, he immediately caught me and pulled me in. He seemed a tad surprised, but he remained collected and smiled. ’I’m so terribly sorry,’ I exclaim. I say (write) that I had spat it out, because you can’t call it speech, as much as it was an accumulation of words. He had dropped a book and I stooped down to reach for it. The embarrassed hurry I had must have surprised him because his eyes widened. Then he smiled again, and I was struck. I hadn’t believed in Cupid’s magic before the discovery. But the way his eyes stroked my shoulder, and his smile warmed my heart. I handed him the book and I must have been a shade of crimson by then; my cheeks were burning up. He excused himself and I couldn’t help but turn and stare at him as he walked away. In the wake of that day, my work, which was in due course studied by he himself; and many others, as it turns out: a cataclysmic event. It was then my work really began to lack that which Bennett assailed, and shine with the confidence that possessed Clarke.
Keeping the institute in mind, I had actually made some friend. Or rather; I was made a friend myself. An invitation from Thomas had led me to end up at a small gathering at his house. Some had wine in little glasses, and they all were keen to exchange greetings. A girl I didn’t know let me in. She was shorter than me and had a strong bust that was hidden by her long dark hair. ’Oh you’re so pretty. Thomas didn’t say.’ She said, and she took my hand. As she led me by my hand I looked around. Charles was nowhere to be seen, but I saw a lot of people I’d seen in town with Thomas. They went to his college. I was led to where Thomas stood talking to his girlfriend, Melissa. She was gorgeous, and her short cut blonde hair flowed so beautifully down to her shoulders where it lay rested. She wore a light blue linen dress that complimented her curves beautiful, and she had a delightful smile. Her voice, too. The girl who had greeted me at first was Melissa’s friend, Elizabeth, and she could not hold back her desire to talk. I loved Elizabeth. She often spoke about her boyfriend, James. It was passing; he wasn’t the topic as much as she simply couldn’t help but mention him. James was right there, too, talking to Thomas and Millie (Melissa), but Elizabeth was desperate to get to know me. She’d be impressed and stunned whenever she asked me a question and so keen to share more of her life and find out about mine. I wasn’t as interesting as her, though, so I let her talk for the most part. James was sweet, he was tall and quite thin. He wore slightly oversized clothes, and he bent down to kiss Elizabeth many times during the event. She’d kiss him back and then seamlessly continue to talk. Elizabeth went to the school next to mine (a law school), and we quickly became friends. She wasn’t the juridical type in the slightest, and was only following the wishes of her parents. In truth: she loved to paint. After the greeting she took me by her house, just down the street from Mr and Mrs Evans (Thomas’ parents), and nearly as close to my house. In her room there were rows of paintings stacked against each other in a corner. Each as beautiful as the other, hidden away. I was in marvel of Elizabeth, then. She insisted I stay over that night, and once I’d got my toothbrush and told grandma, we were having a sleepover. I was giddy and could hardly sleep all night.

—------------not yet connected—————

’Excuse me, I have to go.’ He stood up graciously. It distracted me so I could not hear him until I retrieved focus. ’I would love to talk again.’ But we hadn’t talked. Not really. ’Your eyes…’ He stopped talking, his mouth open but in the most flattering manner. His jaw muscles and lips were in a way that made him look quite spectacular. He kept moving, getting ready to disappear; ’They’re beautiful. Quiet.’ He says. Before I can answer his lips stretch out in a big grin, outrageously childish. Unapologetic. Outrageously handsome. He hands me the drawing, and before I can react, he’s leaving. His walk was intangible. I inspect the drawing. It’s me alright. My eyes are covered by my hair in his picture, and although he used me as the motive, the drawing is me in a completely different setting, and pose. I was standing on one leg, spinning. My hair was fanned out from my movement, arms stretched out like a dancing child. And it was dancing. The picture looked to be living. Fluid and beautiful. Flattering. On the back side of the piece of paper he had written. His hand was refined, beautiful. His letters seemed to be dancing. I make the words dance together; he makes every letter dance as if they had lives on their own. Only happening to find themselves in the same room. On the same street. The letters danced and danced, revealing what he had left written. ’I’m Seth.’ A type of salsa, it resembled. Refined, beautiful; yet not without flare. Stylish and carrying a sort of wilderness. ’Call me Sunny.’ And what followed. It wasn’t a confession of his passionate love for me, yet it felt shocking. His number. Innocent; free of ulterior. I wanted to run home and call him right that second, ask him where he’d gone; get to know him. It wasn’t love, but interest. He was interesting- no intriguing. What else could I do but write about it; so here you are. I didn’t run home and call him.


Later. Not by much. Maybe an hour. I’ve gone home right away. A half hour I’ve spent looking at the telephone, the clock, then at my page; pretending to write. Looking at it not considering whether I should call (although of course I was) but as if I was waiting for him to call me. Foolish. I wondered. Was he waiting? Probably not, but the anxiety was creeping up on me. Should I call. I shan’t.


Days on end I’d thought about the interaction with Seth- no, Sunny. When I write about him I like to call him Seth as a narattor, and Sunny in dialogue. I write about him. Not love stories, but conversations. Rather; interactions. As we were scientists, I see it. Sharing data. He, an artist, a reader. Me, a writer, appreciating his art, even partaking. Although as a motive, rather than a student of it. Sharing arts. He reads poetry. Often. Sometimes books about things such as politics or psychology. But. Not for the ideologies, I’d like to think. More to see different brains. Understanding others. Maybe my imaginary Sunny is much too pretentious. Not him, I mean; my image of him. So I picked up the telephone then. I ringed the number. One ring. Two. I slammed it down and returned to writing as if it hadn’t happened. A few seconds later the phone rang. I waited a few breaths, but the breaths were heavy and hard to take. My hand trembled a bit, admittidly. I reached for the telephone and dropped my pen. I must pick it up. And so I did. Then I immediately lifted the telephone, my pen flat in my palm now under the handset. His voice; a serene melody, I say. ’This is Seth speaking. Sorry for missing your call.’ He said it casually and not uptight. That’s what I liked about him. He was studious of how he acted. Spoke. Dressed. But he was hardly posh, not uptight. His voice rang with a genuine warmth, a stark contrast to when he was buried in a book. Then his focus was admirable, but his sociability not so much. When he drew he was different entirely. He was basking in the feeling of creation, I suppose you could say. It was quite inspiring. ’Sunny. Hi.’ I couldn’t speak further. ’Oh, hello!’ He said all cheerful. ’Quiet.’ He said. Quiet. Must be a sort of artistic expression. Maybe poetic. So I thought. I began, ’I-’ He interrupted before I could finish speaking. ’Sorry, but I want to invite you. Would you like to meet at the café again? Tomorrow; say three.’ And it was settled. I was not excited as much as I was curious. I guess you could call the curiosity of something soon to happen is what excitement really is, but I didn’t feel ’happy’ or cheery as you would. And I wasn’t pretending either. I always say (write) that lying to yourself is the greatest of betrayals.


The next day I went home from school and decided I must get ready for the interaction. I tried a few skirts, a few shirts, etc. Nothing I liked. I tried my hair in different contractions and pretzel-like shapes. Nothing. I ended up tying my hair up in a ponytail. Simple. And I wore a beautifully green dress. Viscose, a sort of dull lavender, not bold in the least. I don’t wear make-up, because I can’t afford it on my allowance. I smelt all my perfumes and settled on a french scent that smelt like a summer field with grass and flowers and beautiful sunshine. Vanilla undertones but mainly floral. After I had gotten ready I went to the café and there he sat. He sat where I had sat last time, and I joined him. Greetings. ’Please, sit here.’ He said, nodding to the space next to him. And so I did.

I want to say what I have yet to say. He is what I am not. He is sporadic, unpredictable. His hair is fluffy and messy, and yet it’s made up in a nice middle part with long, thick strands of dark brown hair hanging down like veins in a jungle. His jawline is well pronounced, and his cheek bones have such a structure, and yet he looks soft. I pin it on his eyes. He has quite fluffy, but still shaped eyebrows, and his eyes have such a nice warmth to them. It’s a sort of brown that reminds you of coffee or a certain brown gemstone. Bitter but warm and comforting. He only offers a steely look, but his face always softens into a moulded, beautiful expression. The way his eye muscles soften to reveal a spectacular painting that is his face. His nose is strong, and his lips too big. It’s all too pretty. He sit next to me as I stare at him, painting me. ’Hope you don’t mind me drawing you, I think you’re a good motive. I love the dress. Pretty.’ He carried a small smile as he continued drawing. I think my face was a brighter shade of red than the red car that passed by the cafe. As I saw saying, he is what I am not. I was raised by my grandparents and the only people I ever got to see outside of school were old, genteel people who loved to watch me read, as if I was a bug in a jar. Books were somewhere I could escape, as I could hardly make any friends. I grew up around elderly and the kids at school used to bully me for being old-fashioned. And of course. The books. They’d take them from me and run and laugh as I tried to get it back. Hopeless, of course. I was slow and weak and shorter than the other kids by what felt like miles when they waved the book above my head. I cried and they threw the books on the ground. Then, I cried more. I could not stand getting my books dirty, and they must have known it; they wouldn’t give up. So, I stopped going to that school and sometimes I’d wonder if those kids felt an undying, rotting guilt for what they did. But I have long since forgiven. Sunny placed the drawing book and pen on the table and looked into my eyes. He leant forward and smelt the air around me. ’You smell good, Quiet.’ He said and glared. Oh how he glared. And oh, how I glared back! How could I abstain? His eyes were so soft and welcoming, I felt I had to. ’Thank you, Sunny. My name is Evelyn.’ I said, and I felt my cheeks were burning, so I placed my hands on them. His expression was an interesting one. It looked as if I had told him a mathematical theorem and he was interested beyond belief. He looked intrigued. ’May I call you Eve?’ He asked, and he leaned his head to one side like a dog. It was quite endearing though, not childish nor bashful. Truthfully, I came to prefer Eve a lot. Evelyn seemed snobbish and growing up around the elderly, as well as being bullied; nobody had before given me a nickname. ’You may.’ He gave a great smile again and I was captivated. He began drawing once more, full of cheer, and I leaned my head on the backrest and stared up at the ceiling. He’s quite tall. I would guess around 5’9’. of course, he wasn’t a giant, but he beat me. He looked fit, strong, but not bulky. I stand proud at 5’6'' and most would describe my appearance as ghastly, I think. As I disliked dirt, being outside was quite the bother, and I prefer staying in. This meant I was pale. Very pale. One of grandma’s friends, Mabel, had once said I looked as if a walking corpse had walked out of the cemetery and right into the parlour. I cried later that day, and for weeks after that. Months. Years. Only sometimes, I was not a crybaby. It hurt to feel so different- no; to be made to feel so different. I had green eyes, which Mable would always describe as jade. I thought she was poking fun, but I later in my life found out jade was quite beautiful. I even wore jade, a beautiful bracelet I had saved birthday money and allowances to buy. My hair was long, brown. Fell down almost to my hips and had a natural volume I thanked the heavens for. Without it I may actually have been able to pass for a corpse. I wanted to cut it. Not all of it, of course. Slightly below my shoulders, would be nice. I’ve wanted to for so long. I’ve finally saved up enough money from my allowance to go to a nice hair salon, since grandma wouldn’t pay for me to ’ruin my beautiful hair.’ Next week I will get my monthly allowance and I’ll have it cut. She was kind in most ways but economically I was not spoiled. I got free toys if I wished them, but of course I only wanted new books to read and write in; she provided that too. Sweets on Saturdays, but I preferred berries. I went out to pick them myself, usually. Despite what I said about dirt. I always took only the berries I saw were clean. ’What do you think, Eve.’ I lifted my head back into the real world and he handed me the book. There I was. This time it was just me. No dance and no vivid pose. It still felt alive, though. Different type of life. I was laughing, a huge smile and I was wearing a beautiful dress. I sat with my legs to the sides and the dress lay like a flower over my legs. I liked the other one better, I think. ’You are very good at giving them life.’ I said. Foolishly, it would seem now. He accepted the book as I gave it, and he closed it. Deep in thought. A few seconds later he said: ’Hmm. I don’t give them life. I capture the life, Eve.’ His eyes danced over me like a ballroom floor. ’You are the life.’ Another time Mabel and a woman I didn’t know were over. Grandma called me down and Mabel’s friend said immediately I looked starved. Which Mabel seemed dumbstruck by. She then agreed, ’poor girl,’ she’d say. I was quite skinny, since I was picky about food, but the lack of empathy to say such a thing to a child. Quite revolting. ’Do you draw?’ I do not. ’But you must. You’re so very held back you’ve got to have somewhere to put all the life in you.’ I write. His eyes widened like a child when you tell it a fairytale. ’Are you an artist, Sunny?’ He took not but one second to respond. ’I could never be an artist.’ Because he thought someone with his utter dismay for perfection, order, criticism; couldn’t be one. Shouldn’t. Along with his lack of motivation to draw outside of finding a good motive: ’Like you, Eve.’ Like. Have there been many before me? He looked like he had broken an expensive vase. ‘I just meant you were a good motive.’ I said I know he thinks that, but why? ‘That’s for not today, Eve.’ He said. He smiled. That was all. We spoke about family life, school, work, etc. Coffee. We had been there an hour, maybe two. He gave me a hug and gone he was. This time, we had talked more.

Mabel would say he’s crude. He isn’t. He only doesn’t have the propriety of one such highness as herself. According to Mabel, if you aren’t proper, it is because you’re not proper; she completely opposed the idea that some people couldn’t be the same as she was. Grandpa would always say that was nonsensical, as he was a now retired professor of civics. ‘You are privileged enough not to understand that etiquette is something of the few, and not the masses.’ I loved to listen to his short lessons. ‘Even if it was somehow desired, they haven’t the time to fuss with your ideas. They have to work, Ms Wright.’ Mabel gave a look of disdain. Not for him, naturally. Grandpa was clever. He taught me all about literature as a child, when he noticed my interest in it. Without him, I may not have ended up being so obsessed. And obsessed was an understatement. When I was 7, my reading turned into note taking, studying. My collection of books remains, with underlined words and thoughts scribbled on nearly every page.