BLUE BUTTERFLY
BY
SUE PACEY

 

 

The warm early summer air wafted gently through her hair as she lay in the meadow, curled up like a cat at rest, her head turned to one side.

Sitting up, she stretched and toyed with a piece of pink clover, rolling the petals between her fingers, before selecting one to suck. She had done this often as a child, drawing the sweet nectar from the clover, and it tasted as good now as it had then.

From this high point in the meadow she could see the village spread out like items for a picnic on a chequered tablecloth of farmers’ fields. The little stream wound through it, as always, glittering like a silver snake as the sunlight caught the water.

From being a little girl, she had pretended that this was her kingdom and she its princess in her gingham frock, hair tied in bunches, her crown a daisy chain.

All was green and fresh, bursting with new life and even the lambs, though growing fast, were still fluffy and white, their woolly tails wiggling as they pranced.

Closing her eyes for a moment, she wished she could stay; to be ten years old and free again. She wanted to keep the wonder of childhood and not to have to worry about where the next meal was coming from. Wonder was among the soft grassland and the wild flowers that she knew, each by name. There were Lady’s Smock, Eggs and Bacon vetch, cotton grass on the ridge by the gate, and buttercups and daisies beside the clump where she had once found a four-leaved clover It had been pressed and kept tucked inside her Bible ever since.

Good God - what would her Bible have to say about the life she led now?

A small ‘meadow blue’ butterfly settled on her dress. Gently she touched its wings, marvelling at how such a tiny fragile and beautiful thing could exist. After a moment or two it flew on its way in search of the nectar-rich clover.

Oh, to be fragile like a butterfly - to be protected and cherished! Now, that would be really something, wouldn’t it?

Jess had protected her, of course. Everyone had known that she would be safe with Jess. The black and white rough-haired collie would have ripped the legs off anyone who came near his little mistress in anger.

Eyes still closed she enjoyed the warm sun and the solitude, face turned upward to the powder blue sky.

 

The sharp pip of the car’s horn made her start because it was so uncharacteristic. They never liked to draw undue attention to themselves. She really must have been miles away not to have heard its approach, as it crept down the road like a predatory animal, black and sleek, driver’s window lowered.

“What do you do?” The question was little above a whisper from the dark interior, a smell of cigarette smoke and leather drifting out.

“What do you have in mind?” Her voice was a sexy growl, a long time practised.

“What can you do for twenty quid, Baby?”

“Not fucking much!” she wanted to scream, for she still had pride, but instead reeled off the list of services anyway, leaning forward to display the goods, playing it.

The door release clicked and she walked around the car slowly, to let him take in her low-cut blouse, short red leather skirt, long legs and high heeled shoes.

Trade samples, she thought. For display purposes only- and while you are doing what you are doing for your paltry twenty quid do not speak, do not attempt to please me, to be nice, don’t bother, as my mind will be on other things, and in other places.

 

She didn’t feel the blow which crushed her skull, until her head broke the side window, glass stars shattering the night sky.

Jess! She tried to call out, Jess!

Nor did she feel the blade of the knife as it cut her throat. She saw a fine mist of red as it flew around the meadow of her imagination spraying her gingham dress and coating the sweet clover in a sticky mess. She clutched helplessly at the gash and the severed cartilage where her throat had been. A long way off the river sparkled and hissed as she tried to take a last breath causing the warm, red rain to spray all around once more.

As her eyes closed, she fancied she saw a small blue butterfly rise majestically from the meadow, off in search of nectar, free at last; and she followed it, dancing.

© Sue Pacey 2007

 

 

Home | Stories | Authors | Contact | Links

© 2006 - 2010 Marie O'Regan and Read Us Writing Group. Site designed and maintained by Marie O'Regan. No material, either images or text, may be reproduced without written permission of the site owners, Read Us Writing Group.