Metamorphosis

“I’ve caught it!” Oliver shouted. He opened the net - and there it was. Gently opening and closing its blue wings, the butterfly sat cradled by the mesh net. 

Sarah ran up to take a look. Her eyes widened. “It’s so beautiful,” she softly whispered. 

“I’m going to take it home,” Oliver proudly declared. “It’s going to be my prize.”

Oliver had been hunting the butterfly for 3 weeks. At 8 years old, he had plump red cheeks and messy brown hair. He wasn’t particularly large, but other children often found him intimidating. They said it was his demeanor. He was always proud, and always held his head high. Not that he came from a particularly wealthy family either. His father was a shopkeeper, his mother a seamstress. They were both rather meek, and generally went unnoticed by most people. Nobody understood where little Ollie had gotten his pride. He seemed to be born that way, constantly smirking at the world, disregarding most other’s feelings and opinions.

So when he finally caught his victim, his pride was what dominated. But Sarah, his 6 year old sister and the person he cared for most in this world, was not as pleased.

“Ollie, you mustn’t keep it. It doesn’t belong with you. It belongs here, with the flowers.”

Oliver, under normal circumstances, would do anything to please his beloved sister. But something about capturing the butterfly had made this the exception. He was a gifted boy; academics, sports, and the arts had always come naturally to him. But catching this butterfly had taken more effort than he was used to. And he didn’t like that. Struggle was unfamiliar to him, and had made him frustrated. This butterfly was his; he had earned it. 

“Sarah,” he began gently, “this butterfly is mine. I caught it. That means it is mine.”

Sarah pursed her lips. “You’re big. It’s small. Of course you can catch it, but that doesn’t mean you should.”

Oliver shook his head. 

“Come on, Sarah, let’s go home.”

Sarah was getting upset. She grabbed the net and opened it. Before the butterfly could escape, Oliver trapped it back violently. 

Carefully, he peeked inside to make sure it was still there. Sarah came over to look as well. Both of their eyes widened.

The butterfly’s wings had torn, and its body was deformed, the head completely smashed in. Sarah began to cry.

“Look what you’ve done! It’s dead, and that can’t be undone.”

Oliver, still stunned, sat down with the net nestled in his lap. For three weeks, he had seen this creature as a target, something he needed to defeat. But now, he realized how beautiful it was. The patterns were artful, and the wings were a shade of blue he’d never encountered before. Looking at its small, delicate body, he wondered how it could have evaded him for so long. It flew slowly, lazily, and it still managed to stay free. Perhaps, Oliver thought, Mother Nature had been protecting this lovely creature.

10 years later

Oliver held his breath. So close, so close. The doe bent its head for a daisy, unaware that he was there.

Oliver aimed. Shot.

The doe fell, dead immediately.

Oliver stood and and walked over. Hen bent over and smiled. He had done well.

He was 18, but looked older. Had hard gray eyes, a creased face, and was unshaven. He was still clever, still naturally gifted, but people avoided him. 

The day after he had ended that butterfly’s life, Sarah had gotten ill. Yellow fever. Each day she had grown weaker. No medicines helped, and Oliver was left to watch his beloved sister die before his eyes. He had even been in the room the moment she passed. His beautiful sister, gone like that butterfly, because what did nature know of beauty? There was no sympathy in the laws of the universe. Beautiful things died, ugly things died, everything went up in flames eventually.

From that day on, Oliver grew bitter and reclusive. He quickly took up hunting, a hobby he could do alone. It seemed fitting.

Now, standing over this young doe, he looked at it as if it were no more significant than a stone. He did not say a prayer; he never did. Nor did he take it home to cook its meat or use its hide. Oliver did not hunt for a specific purpose, other than that it entertained him and took his mind off other matters.

10 years later

Oliver lay alone in bed, dying. He had been hunting the other day when a snake bit him. A fellow huntsman had found him and called a doctor, who initially began giving him treatment. He would come every day to Oliver’s home and deliver his medicine, the only person in the world who still visited him. At 28, Oliver had never married, hardly even spoke to women. Didn’t find any of them attractive or worth his time. But the doctor dutifully came day after day, a sympathetic smile on his face every time.

Until Oliver murdered him. And then stabbed himself in the stomach.

Now here he was, blood pooling beneath him, and suddenly an image came to mind. A blue butterfly, unmoving in his palm, and Sarah, staring at him in horror. 

Beautiful things die, ugly things die, everything goes up in flames eventually.