Kiss of a Butterfly

The world is filled with shades of grey, and a blue tint only slightly softens the harsh, glaring brutality and sharp bluntness of a cold reality. Without color, we're no longer distracted by the vividness of Mrs. Phelps' Sunday dress. We see its shabbiness, how ill-fitting her pride is. Natasha's smile was filled with pity as she watched the inwardly insecure people below her be stripped, unknowingly, of their fa├žade and the truth be revealed. She knew she was being condescending, but couldn't stop her heart from fracturing every time she saw reality-everyone was acting normally, but Natasha now knew they were all fakes, all frauds. She didn't blame them, she pitied them; abruptly, the girl turned away from the scene, as if, by doing so, she could somehow banish this growing feeling of superiority inside her. She closed her eyes for a long moment, two fingers pressed delicately but firmly to each temple. Her eyes flickered open; Natasha stared fixedly at a hair clip, abandoned in the dust underneath a pew. It was a cheap plastic butterfly, iridescent burgundy with flaking glitter. Under the intensity of Natasha's navy-eyed gaze, it seemed to reflect, defiantly, a small light from an unnamed source, perhaps some invisible candle. The girl approached, the sound of her step deadened by the aisle's deep carpet. She carefully lifted the small object and inspected it; she pressed the butterfly's wings to watch the plastic teeth open. She clipped a stray clump of dark hair back, neatly, gracefully, with a practiced air; flakes of glitter had fallen off in her action, but Natasha merely brushed them off her fingertips. She went into the tiled hall and disappeared down the staircase; her only legacy was the echoing click of her leather boots against the floor and a lingering scent of peace, wafting throughout the room, and gentle as a butterfly's kiss.