Butterfly

“Gaspard…” I mumbled, biting my lip at the sight that met me.

The young man sat in the middle of the school yard, cross-legged. Dressed in a black long-sleeved sweater, off-white trousers and grey sneakers, he made a very innocent expression. Together with his ruffled hair and big, blue eyes it wasn’t hard for anyone to see why I was so fond of him. He had his trademark small smile on his lips, looking at me as if he was simply happy to see me. Knowing him, he probably was, but my smile in response never came.

The red substance ran from his nose down his chin, from where it dripped onto the off-white trousers. He had even managed to smear it onto his right cheek as he wiped his nose with his sleeve.

“Hi.” There was a hint of recognition in his voice and for some reason, it made me want to cry. But there were no tears to cry. I kneeled down in front of him, and in his eyes I could see what his smile didn’t reveal; the pain, the confusion, the wonder. Wonder why he had been hit.

“Gaspard...” was all I could say as I lifted my hand to touch his cheek. My fingertips graced the bloodless skin on the right side of his face, my eyes moving over his nose, the left cheek, the lips... the stains on the trousers. My silence was starting to make him uncomfortable, and he kept glancing sideways. He knew how to use silence to communicate, but this was an unnerving silence. When he looked down on his hands, I shook my head. “You’re bleeding...”

Looking back up, those blue eyes carried something more now – fear. “I’m okay.”

I finally started searching my pockets for tissues. “No, Gaspard... You’re bleeding.” Finding some paper, I carefully started wiping excess blood from his chin. He watched me all of this time, not uttering a word or even flinching.

I knew his antagonists were somewhere in the audience of students that had formed a circle around us, but I only had eyes for him. I didn’t need to actively use my ears to hear the whispers rustling through the crowd, nor did I have to ask what they were about. I knew all too well.

Freak. Retard. Mentally challenged. He was called all of these things and more, but for me... For me, he was just Gaspard. And I think he liked that. He seemed so content with the fact that he could point to a butterfly and I would understand. No one ever understood the butterflies, he used to say.

No one understood him.

A new tissue was given to me, by whom I don’t know. I said thanks, my attention at the never-ceasing blood flow. I put the tissue in his hand, grabbing that hand and guiding it up to press the tissue to his nose to stop the bleeding. “You will need to hold it here, Gaspard. We have to go inside.”

He smiled in reply, a smile that didn’t quite reach the eyes. Pressing the tissue to his nose, he got to his feet without a single look at the surrounding people. He looked down on his trousers, seeing the red stains like slightly morbid decorations on his leg. “Blood.”

I wiped my eyes, even though there were no tears. They would only agitate and worry him, and there was no reason for me to cry now. It wasn’t over yet, and crying now would only drain well-needed energy. Nevertheless, my eyes burned hot.

“Come, Gaspard. We’ll go inside.” The crowd parted to let us pass, like polarizing magnets. Gaspard didn’t attract, he would just repel, by no fault of his own. They were all negative, and he was positive. Only he was the wrong kind of positive.

He stopped, pointing. “Butterfly.”

It wasn’t over yet.