The Butterfly Collector

The old, fat woman lay asleep on the couch. Merriam thought of all the ways she wanted to kill her.

It would be easy enough, if only she could grip her fingers around the greasy knife—greasy from the fat woman’s bloated little fingers. She could slide the blade right in with a little caution. Heck, if she could do it fast enough, there’d be no reason to worry; no one would hear any screams.

Merriam scrubbed at the dishes, grumbling as she set yet another slightly less soiled plate to the side. She wondered what her face would look like if she smashed one on the old woman’s head. Would her wrinkled, cataract-riddled eyes open with a look of fear? Or would they not even care at all? So tempting, yet, there was no way she would actually do it—though she hesitated with the plate in her shaking hand.

Around the corner she could hear the fat oaf’s wheezing. Perhaps there had been a time, when she was younger, and her sleeping was pure, distilled silence. Merriam had a hard time imagining her aunt having been young, but surely she must have been. One day, long long ago, she had been young and pretty. Slim. But time had worked its vengeance, and now her flabby skin and drooping eyes complimented her bitchiness. Perhaps that was the final blow of justice; all the boys hither and thither wanted their own appointment inside her pants. Now the few times she left the house, nobody ever paid her mind. In fact, they averted their eyes at the sight of the old hag. It was just as well. All she did anyway was sleep and occasionally bark her orders from the couch.

There were a few occasions where Merriam saw her get up from her spot. The plaid fabric was stained through with brown and black splotches, and it stank up the whole house with an indescribable putridness. Thankfully, time had dulled her senses, so she seldom noticed it these days unless she had the displeasure of getting too close to the couch. Sometimes the filthy bitch had trouble getting up, so Merriam had to grit her teeth and walk her over to the bathroom.

The house had four main rooms. There was the kitchen of course, a poor excuse for a dining room, the living room (complete with access cable on an ancient TV set,) and then there was the single bedroom and bathroom. The bedroom had once been the aunt’s dwelling, but a long time ago (how long, Merriam couldn’t be sure,) the pull of the television called for a semi-permanent move to the couch. It’d been downhill from there, and damn if Merriam didn’t just want to pack a few pairs of clothes and run away some night. “But, dear, you can’t leave!” her mother said over the phone nearly a year ago. “Your Aunt Sophia is sick, how do you expect her to do anything on her own?”

Merriam would have rather screamed. Why do I have to deal with this shit? So what if she’s old? They have special homes just for people like her! But it was too much money, too little time, too many distractions for a good excuse. She was locked inside a filthy house with the filthy animal her parents lovingly called “your poor aunt.” God how she wished there was a nerve in her to do it—to release herself from this living purgatory.

“I need ICE!” Aunt Sophia said.

Merriam grumbled and complied.

“I need someone to empty my ashtray, Merriam!”

Another grumble, and it was done.

Then one day, the air felt different. It was sour with a new kind of horror that was waiting to be discovered. After convincing herself she had no option but to leave her room that morning, and after a few minutes of aggressive scrubbing, Aunt Sophia had a new order:

“Where are the photo albums at, Merriam?” she was still whiny, but there was something else behind it. Upset, perhaps? Merriam thought it unlikely.

“Photo albums? What do you need them for?”

“Bitch,” she coughed, “don’t get smart with me, I didn’t ask for your questions. Where are they at?”

Scrub, scrub, scrub. Clatter.

“I don’t know. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen any of those. The garage maybe?”

Scrub. Scrub.

“Well they damn well better be somewhere. I didn’t keep all of ‘em for nothin’.”

Nope. Not for all your pointless life, Merriam thought. When there was nothing more aside clatter in kitchen, Aunt Sophia continued, “Your uncle Gordon would have wanted us to look at those. They meant so much to him. To us. I think we need to find them.”

“Yeah. That would be nice,” said Merriam.

“We should find it so we can look at everythin’ together. A little family time.”

This was a cue that Merriam knew she had to take—though sometimes it was fun to ignore just to hear her get pissy. Family bonding time? On that stinky couch? She’d have to confine herself to the shower afterwards unless she could manage to wriggle her way out of it. It’d been a long time since she’d made a good excuse, anyway. “I’ll look for them tonight. I have to fill out some paperwork for the state, and… I think we need more groceries.”

There was the fuzzy, static hum of the television. No one so much as a breathed in the living room. Aunt Sophia stopped listening before Merriam could even reason a good sleuth. That would make evening errands much more enjoyable, seeing as the hog couldn’t be bothered to come along in that state. The cow just wanted her ice cream and freeze-dried fruit, and it was as good as a tranquilizer. Merriam would spend the next fifteen minutes scrubbing, and then she would discretely grab her bag before leaving. Maybe, just maybe, she would have some time to herself. Once she was done scrubbing, and as soon as she placed the last knife into the rack, she walked off to her room. Aunt Sophia didn’t even notice.

Merriam dialed a cab, and after a few minutes of debate with the dispatcher (a disturbance she’d grown used to,) they finally sent a car. Said it would be there in an hour or so. For a change she decided it would be nice to wait outside rather than in her room. It was one of those days in June where the air was unseasonably chill, and it would be a sin to spend all of it choked up in this residential gullet. And thank God Aunt Sophia didn’t have a word to say about it; Merriam slid out the front door without so much as a creak. Out went the keys, and the door was locked.

Outside was a labyrinth of white picket fences and endless rows of homes that, while cleaner, were just as dilapidated and drab as the place she called “home.” Buildings stood like bored sentinels. There was the occasional pine tree, and they always seemed to have birds chirping in them mid-day, but this evening was blanketed with quiet. Merriam knew that somewhere out there was another place that was much happier. A place of solitude where no one would scream at her for ice, or beg for extravagant dinners. But the idea of escape was clouded over, and so distant she knew that it had to be a fairytale.

The sun hung in the sky, sinking lower and lower like a dripping egg yolk, and she was starting to wonder just how long before that damned cab was supposed to pull in. The aggravation had worn a groove into her so deep with the repetition of this day each week—only different in minor ways from all the previous times. It was enough to scream, but she sat defeated. Twenty minutes. Thirty? That was half her time for shopping—gone. She could already feel the hog’s wrath that would be there as soon as she’d crack the front door open again. Where the fuck were you, Merriam? I’ve been worried sick about where you’ve been! Are you trying to run away from me?!

Just as easily, she could imagine kicking the hog’s teeth right out. If she planted her foot just right, it could even be fatal, but she didn’t have luck or a true gruesome desire. It was all just imagination—self-therapy even. A healthy thing for trauma? Perhaps in moderation.

If she was going to avoid the wrath, she would have to do so on foot. The sound of her shoes clacking on the concrete—as soft and understated as she was—echoed off each neighborhood house without provoking a soul: not even dogs to bark at her presence. It was as quiet as this town ever was.

At first he looked like a shadowy splotch growing from one of the pine trees a few yards down, so she didn’t think to pay him much attention—thinking him just a part of the scenery. But the splotch moved, and as she neared the tree, she could see the crisp fold of his collar, wine colored overcoat, gray shorts and knee-high socks. There was no hat to cover his hair growing full and dark. A schoolboy, Merriam thought. If he had been wearing one of those woolen flat caps, she would’ve thought he’d walked straight out of a vintage family portrait. He was holding a picture frame almost half his height—looking at it with a fierce, transfixed gaze that would’ve been startling had it been directed at her. But when he looked up, the fire in his eyes calmed to an inviting warmth, “Hello, Ms. Merriam.”

She wanted to ask how he knew her name, but all she could say was, “Hi… I’m sorry, have we met somewhere before?”

“I don’t think so, Miss. But I’ve seen you around here—you’re very pretty.”

“Why, that’s nice of you to say… I’m—I’m sorry you’ve caught me a little by surprise. I’m supposed to be in a cab now, but it seems they’ve forgotten me.”

The boy hesitated. “That’s not so bad,” he said. “If the cab had come, we wouldn’t be talking now, would we? Not like this anyway.”

“I guess not,” she wanted to keep walking, but her heart couldn’t bear to with the child looking at her. There was something she liked about him, and another not-so-pleasant something she couldn’t place, though it could’ve easily been her own stress. “And what’s your name?”

“Nick,” the boy said.

“Ah, Nicholas, that’s a nice name.”

“It’s just Nick,” he said without a hint of amusement, looking down to his picture frame again.

“Well, Nick, where do you live? I don’t think I’ve seen you here before.”

“I travel around a lot—not really a lot of time in one place. I’m a few houses over, at least until Father moves us along. He’s not very happy with me.”

That was the thing about children; Merriam knew they could be open books, but at a certain age, a child learns the art of silence around family when the home is disrupted for long enough. If she decided to dismiss Nick, she would be leaving him alone to his reality—and perhaps it was unspeakable. A family that moved often was almost guaranteed to be dysfunctional, from her experience. For a moment she forgot all about the wrath, the fear. Instead, she found herself fixed on the child, and no—she couldn’t leave. Not knowing that. “I see you holding that there,” she said. “What is it?”

“Just what I do to pass the time,” Nick said, and he tilted the frame so she could see what it held: butterflies. Gorgeous, vibrant wings of all colors spread for display and pinned by a careful hand. She had never seen colors that bright outside of stained glass—like the windows of the Catholic church Merriam visited as a child. Now she knew why he’d been staring so intently.

“You made that yourself, Nick?” she said. “It’s beautiful!”

“Thank you, Miss Merriam. I’m glad you understand. My father gets very upset with me and my collection, so that’s why I come out here—so he can’t see. I want to cover the walls of my basement with these and keep them forever. That would be marvelous, don’t you think?”

“It certainly would. Where did you learn to make something like that, did your mother teach you?”

His eyes narrowed in disapproval, and his voice came out cold and unflinching, “I learned this myself. It’s what I do.” The change was almost as frightening as the hog’s wrath, but she knew better than to take it personally.

“Oh, I see Nick. I didn’t mean to offend, it’s just… You’re very good at what you do, and I want to learn about it. That’s all.” He didn’t have anything to say to that, and when the silence became too much, she said, “Do you have your net with you?”

“A net? Why would I need that?”

“To catch the butterflies,” she said.

He became filled with realization, “Oh! No, no. That’s not necessary. You know, you don’t seem like you have a very happy life; I can see it in the way you dress. The way you hold yourself.”

“Why would you say that, Nick?”

“The way you look when you’re leaving the house. You don’t seem very happy, Miss Merriam.”

“Things could be better—though I guess you could say the same for a lot of people.”

“Don’t kid yourself, Miss. I think we have a lot more in common than you think.”

It set her on edge to think about the hog, life at home; it was all better as a secret. But worst of all was knowing that he was right. Maybe there was something to the way she held herself, her choice of attire (almost always on the worn side, if only because the hog was so obsessed with conserving every penny.) He could read her like an open book, and though it could have been alarming, the sense of reality brought relief. Yes, there are problems at home, and yes, I desperately want to leave. For the first time, she didn’t feel so crazy for thinking that way.

This time, she took her turn remaining in silence.

“If you want to, why don’t you just leave, Miss Merriam?” he said.

“I… suppose I could. But no, no… It would be too complicated. Emotional. A lot of people would be very unhappy with me if I did that.”

The boy looked her over head-to-foot, then turned his gaze to the burlap sack at his feet that leaned against the tree. He reached a pale hand down to pick it up, loosened the rope holding the sack closed, and put an arm inside to rummage around. He hesitated, feeling the object he was looking for, and removed a small plastic gun to hand it to her. It looked ordinary as a plastic pistol might, with its telltale orange cap sticking out the end of the barrel. Merriam never thought Nick to be the type to play with those kinds of toys, but then again, today already held plenty of surprises.

“Go back home and shoot this right at the trouble. Pull the trigger, and they won’t be real anymore.”

I only wish my imagination worked that well, kid, she thought. But it was endearing to see a child so full of creativity, “Are you sure you want to give that to me though, Nick? I wouldn’t want to take something of yours, and besides, I think your parents would be upset if they found out you were giving your toys away.”

Again, the fire in his eyes burned a subtle rage, “I’m sure. It’s none of their business, and besides… I’ll come back for it later. This is what you want, Miss Merriam. This is what you need.”

Alright, I can play a little make-believe, she thought, and took the gun from him. It was heavier than she thought it would be, and chill to the touch. “Well Nick, thank you for this—I guess I should be headed home now. It’s getting late after all.”

“Don’t worry, Miss Merriam. I’m more than happy to assist. Be careful with that,” he smiled and nodded.

And God that kid has a vocabulary. She turned to the direction she had come from, taking notice of the long shadows that had grown since they’d started talking. Soon there wouldn’t be any sunlight at all, and that spelled a nasty argument that was waiting just beyond her front door.

Nick was on her mind with each step back. Such a strange kid, she thought, but alluring no less. Clearly he was intelligent, and that charm of his would do well for him in time. If only they could’ve kept talking; that in itself was a special kind of escape. Now her fears took the forefront of her mind with the knowledge she would be home late—and worse yet—without anything to quell the hog’s emotions. She decided, if at all possible, she would avoid entering the house in a way that would make her presence known to her aunt.

But when she reached the driveway, and the gate that allowed passage into the back garden, the latch had frozen in place from years of rain and neglect. Pulling it apart would’ve been far too much racket. The next best option would be the front door, and to be as silent and stealthy as she had exited before.

She stood at the door holding the knob, filled with trepidation. But you have to, she thought. You have to buckle up and make your move. She opened the door.

Against her hopes, her wishes and prayers, the hog was already waiting for this exact moment—

“Merriam! Where the fuck have you been, Missy?! It’s been almost an hour and you haven’t called—you didn’t even say goodbye! So why don’t you own up to it now, Missy, before I call your parents.”

“And what then, bitch?” she hadn’t expected to say that.

“I’m sorry, WHAT did you just call me?! You’re not going to get away with this shit, Missy, I can call your parents any time I want, and I’ll tell them just how much of a fucking whore you are.”

“Wha—”

“That’s right, you fucking whore, I’ll tell them! That’s what you do all day, sneaking out of the house when I’m not looking and spreading your legs for every damn boy in this town! I’m not stupid! And I’ll tell your folks about the baby too.”

There wasn’t a single rational thing to say to that, though she searched her mind. She felt her face flush, and somewhere in the distance her heart pounded—pleading to be let out of her body to end the torment, the pain. She couldn’t do a thing to hold back the expression that formed on her own face—one of rage and disbelief. “Wh… Who are you?” she finally spoke. “Who are you, to think it’s okay to treat to your only niece like a goddamn punching bag?”

Merriam, against all expectations of herself, raised the gun and pointed it straight at the hog’s face, which was now as wide-eyed and ugly as it ever could be.

Then it happened all too quickly.

Before the hog could throw another verbal stone, Merriam closed her finger around the plastic trigger and heard the pop of a gunpowder cap. The hog opened her mouth, but no scream came out—only a shrill airy whine of a dying breath. At first she thought it was shock, or Oh dear God she’s having a heart-attack.

But the latter was not true. In fact, looking down to both of their surprise, an orange light flickered from a point on the hog’s grease-stained shirt. It sparked and crackled, and Merriam held her breath as the light grew.

The hog seemed to look down at herself with a grim understanding—though Merriam knew not what the revelation was. Then a corner of her aunt’s cheek drooped down. Her eyes rolled back in her head, and what came next was something she’d only expect to see in an abstract art gallery—vivid as the screaming faces of Francis Bacon.

Her flesh drooped, and the skin of her face peeled away in places like molten candle wax, revealing plum-colored networks of veins and arteries pulsing through raw muscle. She watched with a lowering jaw as her aunt’s ear curled in on itself and fell off her head—landing on her shoulder and merging with the fat and flesh that began to form a pool on the tile floor and stick to the couch as her aunt tried to stand on dissolving feet. She fell forward, landing on the floor with a muted plop, looking less and less like something that had ever been human.

The light spread, and moments later the sticky mess before Merriam had caught fire, and the room filled with smoke and the scent of burning hair. It came with a million thoughts that raced through her mind, but strangely, her heart no longer seemed to pound like it had moments before. For an instant, the air was tranquil.

What are my parents going to think.

What are they going to do when they see she’s gone—

Merriam turned to the open door, and there was Nick, a knowing smile stretched across his face. “I told you it would work,” he said. Nick crossed the threshold and approached her, taking his gun back from her loose grip, and then nearly trotting to that awful spot where smoke continued to rise and dissipate. He came back holding something that glowed and glittered—vivid lilac that drew the eye. Nick looked at his new possession with a kind of smug glee: a butterfly, bright as a jewel, and just like all the others in his frame.

“This is what you wanted, Miss Merriam, right? Isn’t she beautiful?” Nick held the butterfly up so she could better see it.

She was too shaken for an answer, but deep down she thought yes. This is what I want. This is what I’ve needed. Seeing the stained-glass wings and Nick’s innocent, youthful smile brought strange reassurance—indescribably calm. He really was a charming boy. “You shouldn’t worry, Miss Merriam,” he continued, “I’ll take care of everything else from here. You can leave now—do whatever you like.”

“Anything?” she said. It was the only simple question to ask.

“Yes, of course, silly! You’re free now. Why don’t you take a little stroll outside? Here’s really not the best place to be right now. How about some more fresh air for a change?”

Yes, fresh air, she thought. It felt just right.

Nick grabbed her hand with gentlemanly grace and lead her to the front door. She turned on the patio to look at him one last time. He nodded a subtle farewell, “I’ll be back again.”

“You will? When?”

“Yes, I will—as soon as I’m finished with the mess. I’ll see you later, Merriam. Promise to be my princess?”

She wasn’t really thinking anymore, just looking into those beautiful eyes, that smile, “Yes Nick, of course.”

“Marvelous,” he said, and closed the door.

Merriam couldn’t help but smile too. As she turned around to see the green and white maze of picket fences and manicured lawns, she felt freedom in the air that never was before. The creamery was two blocks down and around the corner, and that, she thought, would be just right.

There was a vibrant monarch perched on her own picket fence—its wings swaying in the gentle breeze. She wondered how soon Nick would be back, and what he would want, but for now, she couldn’t convince herself to feel troubled about it. Not about him, and not about the empty streets.

Down the road, a yellow cab lay abandoned. Crooked. Its driver-side door ajar.

She wondered if its owner would be coming back.