Harold arrived at the front door dressed in death, the soles of his tobacco, suede hunting boots wrapped in grass and sticky mud. Sweat trickled down the sides of his face, leaving a trail of oily dew on his wife’s memory.
Myrna shook her head in disgust, knowing the
weekly ritual had begun. Out came the
thumbtacks and corkboards.
“So, how many flies did you catch
today?”
Pollen infested eyes cut through her sarcasm;
she covered her wounds with a crochet sweater.
As he laid the net down, she saw one butterfly
trapped inside. Its moss-brown wings lay
lifeless like a swatch of silk that she wanted to caress and stow away for
safekeeping.
“Why must you kill something so
beautiful?”
Harold told her to hush and pinned the creature
to its grave. “It’s just a butterfly,” he groaned.
“And you’re just plain ugly,” she
snapped as she stomped upstairs to the bedroom.
He shrugged his shoulders and grinned, admiring
the specimen on display.
Myrna sat on the bed and wept, hot tears falling
like Summer rain. She glanced at the bedroom walls, eyeing dozens of
butterflies in dead repose. Their glass
coffins coated in dust and death. She sprinted to the bathroom, opened the
medicine cabinet. The bottle of sleeping pills a beacon in a sea of medication.
She rushed downstairs to the kitchen and
prepared a glass of lemonade, dropping half the bottle of sleeping pills
inside. Hurry up and dissolve. She
peeked towards the living room. He was stretched out on the recliner, one hand
lost inside his shorts.
“Harold, I don’t know what came over me
earlier. You must be so tired from the
hunt. I’ve brought you a refreshing glass of lemonade,” she smiled.
He looked at her suspiciously.
“Go on. It’s not going to bite you.”
He took the lemonade and quickly gulped it down.
“Bring me another glass. You know I hate those dainty looking glasses you
insist on using. Bring me a man-size glass.”
“Of course, Harold. You just rest and I’ll
be back in a second.” She prepared another glass, dropped more sleeping
pills. Then, dashed back to the kitchen and waited.
An hour later, snoring emanated from the
recliner. Myrna knew what she had to do. With all the strength she could
muster, she dragged his body onto a large piece of plywood that had been hidden
behind the buffet for months.
Out came the hammer and some nails. The sound of
pounding and screaming echoed throughout the house.
Wiping bloodied hands on her apron, Myrna
frowned, then shrugged her shoulders. “Tsk. Tsk. So much for beauty. You’ve
got to be the ugliest butterfly I’ve ever seen. You won’t do to display. My
only option is the basement. You can discuss beauty with the spiders and
roaches…for eternity.”
Sandy Benitez writes lyrical poetry and short fiction, sometimes dark, magical, or mysterious. Her most recent poetry chapbooks include Cherry Blossom Days and Petal Storm. Sandy currently resides in Southern California with her husband and two children. She can be reached at https://sandysbenitez.blogspot.com or on Goodreads.
