The Butterfly and The Moth

11

You know, my mom wasn't always a bad person.

I wasn't quite sure why my brain was preoccupied with thoughts of her, at this exact moment. My body was still pressed against the white bedding that just yesterday, I loved.

Faintly, I could feel my body. I could feel the way my skin was exposed to the cool air. The only thing covering it, although just barely, was the shirt I had chosen to wear to bed. I could feel the way it draped off my body, the fabric stretched in places it shouldn't be stretched.

I could feel the way I was almost completely exposed, but I didn't make any moves to cover myself. I didn't see much of a point of doing so. I had already been exposed in the sickest way possible.

And there was nothing I could do now to change that fact.

But most of my senses were being allocated to inside my head. And it was my mother that I was thinking about. Like I said, she wasn't always a bad person.

I have memories of her before everything went bad. In the times when I used to be a butterfly. I wasn't adopted to a family that only wanted a child to increase their tax return and use them for unpaid labour. I wasn't adopted to monsters who only wanted someone to take out their frustrations on.

I was adopted to a good family. My father, oh, my father. He was so good. He was kind. He was patient. He was funny. And most of all, he adored me.

The kind of love he had for me and my mom, it a rare kind of love that you don't stumble upon often. The kind of love you read about, or watch on the big screen. He was the kind of dad that would work all day to provide for his wife and daughter, and then pick up flowers on the way home to give to us with a smile on his face.

I have no bad memories of my dad. Every memory I have of him, it glitters with gold. The memories are warm, sunny and perfect. With him, my life was great. With him, our lives were great.

But, because I wasn't really a butterfly, I was a moth — I didn't have that life for long.

The day that my father died was the day my real life began. The life that had very few good memories, and held instead, a lot of pain.

It was a Tuesday. I remember it so clearly. My father woke up, he made me and my mom pancakes, he kissed my mom on the lips and me on the cheek, and he went to work.

And then, around 10:30 am, his tired heart decided to give up, and he had a heart attack.

Like I said, it was the day my life changed, but maybe, not in the way you were thinking. It didn't just change because my dad died, it changed because the good version of my mom died, too.

We could have made it, if she stayed the same. We would have been okay. We would have missed my dad, but we would have survived.

My mom was once good. She loved me, too, but not as much as my dad loved me, I realize that now. She had always been slightly chaotic, but in a good way. The kind of chaos that you never really worry about, because you know it always ends with laughter.

She just always needed to feel something. And when my dad was alive, that desire came in many great forms. Spontaneous trips to the amusement park when I should have been in school. Driving with the music at full blast, and all of the windows rolled down so the wind rushed into our hair. Staying up all night when I was far too young to do such a thing, but she didn't care because we spent hours laughing together.

My mom loved fire. The only problem was that she never knew the difference between water and gasoline.

So naturally, when someone offered her a pill after the funeral, to help her calm down, she never really stood a chance.