Butterflies

down a long winding road and up a gravel walkway, surrounded on either side with dead grass, a house sits. it’s faded blue door creaks and when you try to open the door, you notice the knob doesn’t turn. the white paint falls in curls around the porch, gently swayed by the cold wind. inside the home are dust covered hard wood floors.

scratches start at the front door and guide you down the hallway. the wooden bannister is shattered and lies in splinters. be careful, if you’re wearing sandals. if you’re not wearing sandals, walk quietly.

the wallpaper is stained with blood, peeling away from the corners. it cringes as you walk by and aches to speak to you; to tell you stories. follow the scratches, they’ll take you somewhere you’ll never want to be again.

you stop at the end of the hallway. on the ground is shattered glass. a broken frame, in two pieces it lies on the floor, broken. like the rest of the house.

like you.

just like you.

cardboard lies on the ground, between the broken frame, between the shattered glass. and with shaking fingers, you pick it up.

butterflies are stuck to the page, the dust still shimmers on their wings. with one finger, you touch the wings and the dust remains on your fingers.

the screaming begins. it is not faint.

is it your’s?

is it the butterfly’s?

or is it the woman?

the woman’s whose blood stains the wall, the woman’s whose body was thrown through the bannister?

the woman’s whose scratches guided you to this awful place.

this awful place that you’ll never forget.

because as you run out the door, you’re still clutching that cardboard with the butterflies stuck to it.