The white butterfly is fluttering its wings. Its abdomen and legs covered and dripped a thick red substance into the endless white space I thought of as a room. A room draped with the stench of bleached air. A room so clean I felt my silhouette absorbing the light and my skin felt as hot as cocoa in the winter breeze. But a shiver runs down my spine and I feel the chill of winter and the bite of frost upon my legs. I am wearing a crimson dress covered in the red substance the butterfly had danced above my head dripping onto me. Where I stand is dripping with scarlet on one side of my bodice.
My feet securely on the ground but not moving.
Legs uncooperative to my will.
The butterfly taking flight around me and landing in the puddle that stains the floor. As I look down to have a better view, I am met with a sight that is all-too familiar. A bloodied wrist and a bleeding belly. A razor lays 10 feet away, almost mocking who I am and what I have become as result.
I have become the butterfly shielded by my blood and accepting this way of life
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