1: Before the Black Dress, After the Blue Butterfly

My family started dying.
As people tend to do.

Most of us try to procrastinate about it. We stall. We pretend it isn’t happening.
Others—the real ones, I thought then—do something about it.

If there was a way to stop it, that had to be it.
In a one-sided way, it really does solve all your problems.
It’s selfish enough to make you successful in at least one way.
And if it doesn’t work—
you can always try again.

That’s what I figured anyway.

I walk with my head down, watching where I step.
A car whirs past so close I feel the wind on my skin.

Asshole, I think.
Unflinching. Just disappointed.
Over and over again, no one knows what I need.
They just keep disappointing me

I follow the painted line between the lanes, pretending it’s a tightrope.
It's not fair to just jump. Not like that, you have to give them the chance to choose.
Besides, it’s a long way home if I only break a leg and live.
Not that I’d want to go there.
Pretty much anywhere is better than that place.
I’m walking this highway with no purpose.

But life has a way of being frustrating—even when it IS purposeful.

My pace slows. I’m tired.
Not sleepy.
Spent.

I don’t really have anywhere specific I want to go.
I just want to belong there when I get there.
But there isn’t a “there” for me.

My eyes squint against the cloudy day.
The sky is too bright.
Even gray feels loud.
Like static behind my eyes.

I step on a reflector.
A car whizzes past in the other lane.
The draft snaps my jacket and pulls me sideways.
The ones you see coming are always the best.

Back to the line.

I tilt my head back.
Clouded sky. Too bright, it hurts.
I stop in the lane just to hate it.

Then I see one coming toward me.

My right hand stays in my pocket as I walk forward again.
Feet balancing like a deranged tightrope performer.
Left arm out.

It doesn’t move away.

Finally, I think.
Someone who knows what I need.

It stops... and I look over, annoyed.

What an asshole ...

A slow power window grinds down making a sharp electrical noise

A large man leans out.

“HEY. What the fuck are you doin, buddy? Get outta the fuckin road.”

“Useless,” I say, turning back to the line.

He hates that. I can tell.
I hate men who can’t stand not being seen.
Entitled assholes.
The kind who think silence—
or honesty—
is disrespect.

I wasn’t trying to insult him.
I was just being honest.

He didn’t do what I needed.
He wasn’t good at what I needed him to be good at.
I hate entitled assholes.

The world turns.
I walk the line.
You either hit me or pretend I don't exist.

I flip him off and keep walking.

“HEY—Kid—are you okay?”

The tone changes.

Pity.
I fucking hate pity.

I pull my hand from my pocket.
The bottle flashes.
I tilt my head back, curse the sky.
Why is overcast so fucking bright?
So loud?

The world finally softens at the edges.
My face goes numb again.

I sweat—angry.
But steadier.
Calmer.
The noise between the static softens.
Slows.
I see the line.

“No. Go fuck yourself.”

I expect him to give up. He doesn’t.

A horn sounds somewhere behind me.
Too close.

Then impact.
A fast, blunt pain.

Air leaves me.

I’m on the road.
A reflector presses into my tailbone.

Inconvenient.

“I’M FINE,” I scream, hoarse and furious.

I crawl. Breathe. Rise.

“YOU’RE ALL FUCKING USELEEEEEEEEES.”

My right hand goes to my pocket as I walk toward his truck.
He’s silent now.
Stunned.
Pretending to care.

I hate him for that.

“OH MY GOD—KID—ARE YOU OKAY?”

I fold his mirror inward.
Turn back to my line.

“Sha do… do be do…”
I walk in rhythm, smiling to myself.

“In the still of the—”
I wince. Let it fade. There’s always next time.

My leg hurts.
At least it isn’t broken.

Walk the line.

My left hand goes to my pocket.

Cold steel, silver blade
Blue handle.

My butterfly knife.

I love it.
Probably—
no. Definitely—
more than I loved my life.

All I ever had to do was hold it.

It grounded me.
Like a wire finally finding earth.

The noise softened.
The static had somewhere to go.

Something solid in my hand.
Something real.

With a flick of my wrist,
I could be safe.

If I needed to.

I used to think that word meant something.
Safe.

It didn’t, back then.

I was small.

Too small.

Whatever I held
always ended up in someone else’s hand.

When I got old enough—
or when no one paid attention anymore—
sometime around ten,
I started disappearing.

It’s how I survived.

But I don’t want to do that anymore.
I want to be normal.
Or nothing.
No in-between.

I tilt my head and look back.
He shouted something.
I didn’t care.

The truck leaves.

I decide I’ll try a few friends’ houses.
Find something for the pain.

It isn’t bad—
just annoying.

An excuse disguised as reason.

I turn onto a side road.
No lines here.
Shitty rural towns—
nothing knows where it’s supposed to be.

I need a line.
I need rules.

I grip Blue tightly and look up in frustration.

My other hand goes to my neck.

The necklace.

Don’t.

Small silver pieces are candy to my nervous system.
I know better.
I do it anyway.

My body moves before I decide, and we've already come this far.

Why is this goddamn sky so fucking bright?

So loud… and a car horn ?

Wait, a car horn?

Why is this fucking car honking at me?
What do you want, you stupid fuck?

Respectfully—
I’m in the middle of the road.
You’ve got plenty of room.

Hit me
or ignore me.

I have a headache.

I stick my left arm out and raise my middle finger again—
something I’ve gotten pretty good at recently.
I like to think of it as an efficient way to make people choose.

A siren blips.

Another sound in the storm.

No—
a police siren.

Fuck.

My hand tightens around the bottle.
I want Blue.

A voice cracks through a speaker.
Too loud.
Too close.

“Stop walking. Put your hands in the air.”

He steps out of the car.
Points.
Tells me to walk back toward him.
Hands up.

“Can you turn the fucking lights off? I have a headache.”

He doesn’t.

The world flips.
Metal under my ribs.
The hood is cold, which is nice.

“Did you know I was a cop?”

“No,” I say. “I just thought you were another asshole.
Kinda the same thing, I guess.”

He laughs—small.
Then his hands are on me.

“You got anything on you?”

“A knife.
And medicine.”

I feel him find the bottle.
I knew he would.

“What’s this?”

“Asthma.”

Then Blue.

I knew he’d find that too.

“You know you can’t have this, right, kid?”

I think about saying something smart.
Something sharp.
My nose is still numb. I feel bold.

I don’t.

I need Blue.

I try something else.

“It’s not for hurting anyone,” I say.

I hate how small that sounds.

“I just—
it helps.”

My voice comes out quieter than I meant it to.

“I need it close sometimes,” I add.
“The cold.
The weight.
It gives me something to hold.”

I hesitate.

“It makes me feel…
not so loud.”

The officer starts to uncuff me and picks me off the hood of his car

"I'm taking your knife, go home kid, and don't walk in the middle of the road"

“Yeah, thanks,” I say.
Useless asshole.

I can’t go home tonight.
It’s the weekend.
He’s there.

The static swells as the cop drives away.

Not as bad as it could have been.

I step back into the road.
Hand in my pocket.
Head tilted back.

I hate the sky.
It’s so fucking bright for gray.
So loud.

I chew on my necklace and spiral with the noise.

I need to find her.