Philosopagus Seven 002

1) A broken butterfly on the ground quivers in the wind. Its colors, once thick, dull. A hovering shadow reaches down with weightless fingers.
2) The wings: gossamer, shredded, discarded. Separated from their body, whimpering an inch away. The shadow: corpulent, a child. Laughing.
3) He holds the body, now flightless, grounded. The legs, protruding. No more. The antennae, alert, removed. Laughing. Years pass. Wings shred.
4) He holds the body. She struggles, silenced by words. Threats. She quivers on the floor. He reaches down, ten fingers around her neck.
5) His thumb, holding down a beating artery. His cracked index enwraps a tendon, smooth and tight. Between them, a ridged trachea.
6) She looks up; her eyes pulse. A little boy stands before her.
7) “Fly,” she wheezes, and he lets her go. “Don’t hold so tight next time. I almost couldn’t say it.” “Sorry,” he says. “I got excited.”