She collected butterflies as a child. She kept them in glass jars and lined them up along her window sill, where they waited in silent symmetry for nothing to come. And when they inevitably suffocated and died, she was saddened for a passing moment. She would tip their crumpled bodies into a shoe box and place it underneath her bed. In the winter months she was restless. With no passing butterflies she was left alone, counting raindrops and chewing her fingernails. And she waited. She waited for the day a butterfly would float along and fall into her net once more.
I should warn you reader; this is not a happy story.
·
The Woman sits in the corner. She is alone. Right leg folder over left, hands resting on her sketch book. She wears a feather in her hair. The company she keeps do not know about the rabbit she ran over that morning and her silence is mistaken for artistic mystery. But still, she draws well, and I will not deny her this. There is the usual buzz, red wine in small glasses and average cheese on paper plates. Music hums. They discuss the weather, the news, how long and how often they have all been drawing. They each confess how many classes they have attended, if any at all. She is silent throughout. Still.
The model today is an exceptionally ordinary woman named Blanche Miller. Conversations peter out as she enters the room. She is introduced and welcomed to the space by a much shorter woman with a wide mouth and shaved head. Her silk robe is turquoise, and it tumbles the floor like water as she unties it. It pools around her slightly larger-than-average feet and she takes a seat on the long couch provided. The Woman pauses before sliding her pencil slowly across her cream coloured page, marvelling at her beauty. With parted lips and wanting eyes she traces the curve of her model’s body. They linger on stretch marks that lick the tops of her thighs and stomach. Taking a dark brown chalk pastel, she fills her outline with such rich colour she can almost taste it. She highlights the skin with a rusty red and contours with mahogany. Her model holds her delicacy with confidence. She is remarkable in her simplicity and captivating in grace. The woman is overwhelmed by her majesty. By her beauty.
After the class is done, she asks to buy her a cup of coffee.
On the street that runs parallel to the art studio there is a bar. From outside a warm glow of soft yellow light spills from the single window and onto the wet, grey pavement. The door is gold and the brick wall has been painted black. The paint is chipping slightly, and the ‘Open’ sign in its window has been handwritten.
“Papillon,” Blanch muses, “I don’t think I’ve been here before,”
The woman grasps the door handle and pulls it open. Blanche steps through, and the woman follows closing it securely behind her.
The smell of burning incense and old books greets them. Musicians frozen in black and white hang from bronze frames on the walls. Candles burn on each of the six tables and the lights are dim. Behind the bar, bottles of amber rum, violet gin and green absinth fill the shelves.
“I feel when people say they want a coffee, they really mean whiskey, don’t you?” Her voice is buttery and crackles as she speaks.
Blanched giggles, “And what makes you think you know what I want?”
“I suppose I must have a sixth sense,” her ears murmur with the tinkling sound of Blanche’s laugh. It reminds her of childhood, like silver bells or bird song.
Behind the bar a tall, broad shouldered woman named Lucille leans polishing glasses, she spots the woman and smiles.
“I’ve got a date for the surgery,” she confesses to her in quiet euphoria, “November 18th 2020”
“It’s about time,” the woman stretches a gloved hand towards her and grips her firmly, her voice filled with reverence, “It’s about time,” she repeats.
She sees a glimmer in Lucille’s eyes, see the hope quietly knocking at her door.
“I got the news yesterday. I can’t even believe it’s finally happening,” her voice crackles with tears, “It’s really happening, you know? Like I’m really going to get it. I don’t even know what to think. They’re the best gender reassignment practice in the country, babe, and they’re going to do my surgery. I feel like it’s just all been worth it you know? I’m going to get my body, babe, my body,”
“Are you nervous?”
“No, well, yeah, actually, I am a bit” Lucille’s laugh is a breath of exhilaration, “my stomach is full of butterflies,”
The woman blinks once, slowly, and smiles.
“Let me introduce you to Blanche,” she says, pressing her hand into the small of Blanche’s back as she speaks.
“Hello,” Blanche smiles warmly, “It’s lovely to meet you. Congratulations on your news,”
They order two glasses of Monkey Shoulder whiskey, Blanche asks for ice and Coca-Cola, but the woman drinks hers neat. It was a Thursday and so the bar was filled with few people. A man in a dark green shirt sits alone, the woman notices as he slips a golden ring from his forth finger and drops it into his pocket. Two young girls, about twenty or twenty-two make regular trips to the bathroom returning bright eyed and rubbing their noses. The woman walks Blanche to the corner of the room where they sit at a table, opposite one another.
“So, tell me all about your modelling career,” she teases.
“Oh, well I wouldn’t really call it a career,” Blanche giggles again, “I’m good friend with Cami, the woman who runs the classes. She owns the studio,”
“I can’t say I know her,”
“Oh, you will! She’s the one with a shaved head and roses tattooed all down her arms,”
“Ah, yes, I know her. You have hot friends,”
“Yeah, well, it was through Cami anyway. It started off just as a favour, but now I suppose I just do it for the buzz. It’s quite remarkable being drawn by so many people like that,”
The woman smiles at her casual use of the word ‘remarkable’.
“I can imagine,” she holds Blanche’s gaze for longer than necessary, “especially when you’re completely naked,”
Blanch blushes and looks into her glass, “Yes,” she laughs, “especially then.”
Outside the rain begins to fall heavily against the clouded window. Taxis splash puddles of water up onto the curb and a homeless man tries to light a damp cigarette with little success. Footfall on the street becomes gradually lighter as one whiskey becomes two, and then three and then four. Lucille fills a water glass with clear gin and plays a Pink Floyd record.
·
During the walk home she thinks only of Blanche. She thinks of the way her lips press together before she answers a question. The way her head tilts to the right as she listens, her long elegant neck bare in the candle light. She thought of her short nails and ringless fingers. Of her skin, glistening under the studio’s lighting. And of the pendant. A small, silver sycamore tree hanging delicately at her collar bone.
Once home, she places her keys into the ceramic pot next to the door and hangs her coat carefully. Then, she washes her hands. After this she unties her boots and places them neatly by the door where they are kept. Noticing a grey smudge of mud on the left boot she walks to the kitchen, collects and damp cloth and cleans it. Then, she washes her hands once more, making three rotations to the right and then the left. Pouring herself a glass of water from a bottle in her fridge she gazes out of her kitchen window. The silhouette of a fox appears. It is thin and its fur mattered. She follows it with her eyes as it creeps amongst bins until it eventually slips into an alley way where it falls out of sight. She shuts her blinds.
·
Her days began in silence. Yawning she would walk down creaking stairs to the small kitchen where she made her breakfast. She always waited until her cereal was thick and mushy with milk until she began eating. Her bare feet would press against the cool, smooth tiles. Some mornings she would find one of Mamma’s friends in the kitchen too, making coffee and taking up space. They were often surprised to see her, she was often not. She cared not for their long hair and unshaved faces and armpits. Sometimes, it was a man. Sometimes a woman. Sometimes it was someone caught in between, someone who was both and neither all at once. They came in solitude. They came in groups. They always varied in age and race. But they were all the same to her. All pierced and tattooed in the common originality of free love. All regrettably forgettable. Being only twelve, her taste buds were sweetly inclined. And yet, she drank her coffee black and without sugar. She enjoyed the quiet taste of rebellion with every unpleasant sip. Mamma did not like her drinking coffee, she said it made her seem old and ‘too sensible for a child anyway’. But Mamma would not wake until at least noon and so she was always unaware of these smalls acts of treason happening in her house each day. The house was always littered with remnants of her Mamma’s ‘little gatherings’ left from the night before. Empty bottles of wine lay next to burnt out candles in sickening disarray. A tapestry hung over the window, making the sunlight hazy and red in the room. Dust particles swam in its light like tiny dancers. There was always a musical instrument, a poetry book, taro cards or crystals. Articles of clothing always strewn about the house. Oil, wax and rubber lay nakedly by leather and lace. There was always bongs, pipes and powders. Always joints crushed into ash trays and unremarkable philosophies recorded onto scraps of paper. And that smell. The smell of love and free spirits Mamma called it. Most days, the house reeked of stale smoke and sweat. After breakfast, she showered for a long time. Mamma and her friends did not shower often, and so fresh soap and hot water were of little importance to them. Black mould decorated the neglected bathroom and there was a brown patch on the ceiling. She would scrub her skin with a nail brush until it was pink and tender. She took extra care with her hands, scraping the sound of her mother making love from underneath her fingernails. Three circles to the right, and then the left. She filled her ears with water, poured it into her mouth and in between her toes. She washed her hair, often two or three times and once she was done washing her whole body, she started again. She continued this cycle until she no longer felt dirty, or until her skin was too sore to touch. It was usually the latter which came to her first.
·
Sunlight through an open window. The sky is warmer now and the grass soft to sit. Wrapped in white bedsheets, Blanche rolls to her side. Her body is warm and her skin smells of morning. She smiles as she feels arms wrapping around her and soft lips on her shoulder.
“Good morning,” a voice whispers in her ear. She is kissed twice on the neck and once more on her shoulder. And then the woman gets out of bed.
“Where are you going?” Blanch protests, still naked under the tangle of bedsheets. She opens her eyes and watches the woman walk across the room to her wardrobe. Her body is lean and strong, her skin pale. She pulls a loose fitting black woollen jumper over her head and hooks peacock feather earrings into her ears.
“It’s so cold in here all alone,” Blanche teases. The woman studies the morning sun falling brightly onto her face, her skin oily and her eyes puffy from sleep.
“You’re very lazy Miss. Miller, do you know that?” her mouth is a smirk as she ducks under the sheets, kissing Blanches toes and ankles delicately. She works her way up her legs, running her tongue along Blanche’s thigh. The morning fades to noon.
As Blanche showers, the woman strips the sweat soiled sheets from her bed and takes them to the washing machine in the kitchen. There is an empty wineglass on the table, kissed with Blanche’s dark lipstick and licked with the memory of red wine. Rolling tobacco is sprinkled on the counter top, and Blanche’s shoes have been left by the couch, unaligned and with open laces. She cleans them with cold eyes. The upstairs floorboard creeks as Blanche walks back to the bedroom. As she waits for her to dress and towel dry her black hair, the woman makes a pot of coffee. She pours a mug and drinks it in silence, without milk or sugar.
“I have a surprise for you,” she says as Blanche walks into the kitchen and pours herself a mug from the pot, adding two sugars and lots of milk.
“Oh yeah?”
“Yes,” she stands behind her and wraps her arms around her waist, resting her chin on Blanche’s shoulder, “But you have to wait until we get there to find out,”
Blanche turns around, her face lit with her excited smile. She kisses her slowly and whispers,
“Well we better get going then shouldn’t we?”
·
In her hands she held the hearts of free souls. Like raindrops falling into a bucket they all came to her eventually. She understood the fickle minds and frivolous eyes of those who love. Foolishly. And openly. She learnt to slaughter love and feign desire. Her heart died of loneliness long before she felt a body pressing against her own. And so, she never needed company. She had marble veins and stones for eyes. She had learnt the cruelty of chasing beautiful things. And she blamed beauty for the conceited, ignorance of life. Artists killed her childhood. And she hated them all. All the lovers, and the leavers. The listeners, and the breathers. She hated the dreamers and believers. How they all lived in beautiful brutality. Something empty and void of purpose. Like an ornate, empty, glass bowl in the hands of a starving child. Something pointless and cruel.
She collected butterflies as a child. She kept them in glass jars and lined them up along her window sill. Obsessed with the caged freedom around her she embarked on a beautiful crusade. And as she grew, she stopped collecting butterflies. And collected free hearts instead. Artists and poets and dancers and singers. She pillaged them all. After her duty was done, she simply waited. Silent like a snake. She waited for the next beautiful being to come her way. She made them fall in love.
And then, they simply suffocated.
·
In two months time, she will walk along the same streets her and Blanche once strolled along, hand in hand. This time, however, she will be completely alone. They day will be bright and clear, the may morning only just waking up. She will walk past the ‘MISSING’ posters that have been decorating the trees and windows for weeks. Her face will be expressionless. She will look at those familiar oval eyes, thick eyebrows and black hair. It is the face of a woman who used to love her. The face will be frozen in a wide, gleaming smile hovering above the police’s contact details. She will not feel any overwhelming emotion as she studies the face. She is already forgetting the taste of her lips and warmth of her body. She will turn away from the poster and head to the train station, her destination presently unknown. She will walk calmly and steady as always. The clipping of her heeled boots against cobbled stones will be the only sound in the quiet street. She will slip her hand into the pocket of her black trench coat, and there she will feel the familiar cool presence of a sycamore tree pendant, secretly shining in silver. She will take it out and loop it around her neck, tucking it underneath her jumper. And then, in magnificent triumph and secret success, she will smile in a small way. It will be brief and only for herself. As she continues to walk birds will begin to sing and local shop keepers will pull up metal shutters and unlock doors. She will tell them good morning. At the train station, she will walk past a flower bed filled with oranges, pinks and white petals. Butterflies will flutter amongst them. She will stare at the with cool eyes for a moment, before turning and walking to the ticket office.
“A one way ticket to Brighton please” she will ask the ticket officer.
After, she will simply board the train and leave.
And that, will be that.
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