Brown - Death of a Butterfly

The adult butterfly lays eggs which hatch in about 37 days. The young caterpillars start off eating frantically for 23 weeks. They grow quickly and increase their body mass by a few thousand times.

Caterpillars grow so much that they shed their exoskeleton several times, and can change their appearance through this process.

I watch my aunt pour the pearl jasmine tea. Her long fingers clasp the handle whilst her free hand gently touches the lid. I listen to the bubbling sound of the liquid falling into the cup. My eyes stare into the swirling steam. I see the reflection of the window in the surface of the tea. I pick up the cream china in my hands and feel the warmth. I lift the smooth curved handle and touch the rough unglazed surface underneath. I smell the sweet fragrance, letting the steam float across my cheeks. I tip the cup slowly until the liquid touches my lips and seeps into my mouth. The heat spreads across my tongue and gums. I taste the jasmine and slowly return my cup to its saucer.

I am living more of my life as it happens through my senses. I look up to see eyes, set within peaceful faces. My mind interrupts, grabbing an inherited judgement. Instead of beautiful, loving humans, I see a rapist, murderer and the woman my once beloved husband left me for. I wash those thoughts from my consciousness. This is my new family. These are the people I have chosen to explore the next phase of my life with.

I walked up the paved path to my front door. My mind turned to tea and biscuits, before marking Mondays homework. It was late September, and dry brown leaves had blown up against my door forming a small pile. I brushed them to one side with my shoe, letting them spiral into the wind. I fumbled through my bag for my keys.

As I looked up I saw my reflection in the glass. My shoulder length hair had blown to one side creating a lopsided appearance. Long wriggling snakes fought each other. Their blond heads seemed to want to escape their darker roots. A few strands had stuck to my lip-balm. I unlocked the latch and pushed the door open, hearing the familiar sound of the draft strip brushing across the mat.

My new business cards were scattered across the black and white hall tiles. I squatted down to impatiently scoop then up. I held one up to the light. Oh fiddlesticks, the mauve background seemed a little too pale for the white letters.

As I walked into the living room, I was jolted out of my rhythm. I dropped my bag and keys. My eyes slid down Mathews body and froze on his left ankle. His skin was showing. Mathew hated his trousers being short.

There were small white feathers on our beige carpet.

I knelt and pulled the charcoal grey fabric down to his shoe. I touched his cold hand and straightened it so I could tidy his sleeve. I smelt Mathews cinnamon fragrance. I started to adjust his tie, and then felt helpless. The end of the tie seemed to have been sucked into a hole in his chest. The maroon silk blended into the wound. The fabric was matted to his shirt and skin by dark coagulated blood. Nausea rose and I instinctively put my hand over my mouth. Slumping back against the side of our blue sofa, a shaking consumed me. Tears ran down my cheeks. I pulled my knees to my chest and rocked back and forth.

The feathers blew around me as I swayed.

I could not trust my senses. The image in front of me was all wrong. There had to be some way back to my normal sensations. I wanted to shout out that there had been a mistake. Yet I was too numb too act, too anaesthetised to feel any emotion. I had been struck dumb.

I still had my old red coat on when I opened the door to a uniformed policeman. I was aware of a peripheral commotion, blue flashing lights, cars pulling up, a large woman opening the gate but it was the constables face that held my gaze. He held my arm, gently leading me back into my home.

Is there another room you can sit down in?

We passed the living room door and I sat at the kitchen table. I looked at a circle of crumbs on the bare wood surface.

The constable put the kettle on.

I looked back down the corridor and could see men and women sealing themselves into zip up protective clothing. Two strode into the living room. Flash, flash, flash. A man knelt to examine the front door. There was banter, organisation and familiarity to their routine.

Here you are, Mrs Blake. The constable placed a cup of tea in front of me. An orange Bart Simpson stared at me with an inane grin, jolting me into a different reality for a split second before the numbness kicked in again.

A large sky blue, nylon-suited woman spread out on the chair opposite me. Her rose perfume was overwhelming. She took a chocolate bar out of her bag broke it in two and put half in front of me.

Im Inspector Pride. How are you?

Confused, shocked, disorientated.

Pride looked at me sympathetically.

Ill find someone to help you. Do you feel ready to just go through the events? She took a bite of her snack.

I held my half and looked at it.

Hey ho, lifes a box of chocolates.

I immediately regretted saying that. It was a saying my mother used a lot. Dad used to say it completely out of context to make me laugh. Mums face, lined with a deep frown, made it all the funnier. As I got older I inherited the expression and it would appear in my head whenever life took a difficult turn. My mother explained it as meaning life was full of surprises. Sometimes you bit into a chocolate and enjoyed the filling whilst others tasted disgusting. Dad extended the expression to include random objects. Lifes a bowl of fruit, lifes a shop full of clothes, lifes a cupboard with three pairs of shoes. The more obscure the context, the funnier my silly expression became. Those words had become so ingrained in me that today they flew out of their own volition.

Pride looked at me with a quizzical expression for a moment.

Yes, well, right now I need to hear what happened when you came home.

I nodded. I wanted to talk. I wanted someone to help me make sense of it all. I hoped the inspector would drag me back to normality. My skin crawled as I considered she might join me in my nightmare.

After I described my homecoming, there was silence. The inspector looked a little confused. She finished her mouthful.

So you came home from school at four-fifteen, found your husband dead on the floor, but did not call us until six?

I nodded. I felt a pang of guilt. The thought flashed through me that this made me a suspect. I had a history of feeling nervous around authority. I remember feeling tense around my teacher, the odious Mrs Maddox, as a child. Even as an adult, I am self-conscious when in the presence of the head teacher. Now I felt a need to persuade the policemen and women in my home that I was innocent.

I just couldnt believe it. I just froze. And then as an afterthought I added, He doesnt usually come home until six.

I put my hand over my mouth in an attempt to stem the stupidity coming out of it.

There is no obvious sign of a break in. Do you know anyone who might have done this? Any enemies he has upset?

I shook my head.

I keep asking, Why? Why my Mathew?

Your husbands wallet was on the table, does he usually keep money in it?

I nodded.

It was empty when we checked.

A policewoman took me to our neighbours, Edward and Edwina Edwards. Mathew and I used to laugh about their names trying to imagine Edwards parents snorting with laughter as they wrote Edward on the birth certificate. We later found out that Edward changed it himself, by deed poll. He used to be called Peter. Edwina was her original name. We assumed they got drunk and thought it would be a hilarious wheeze to get married and be Edward and Edwina Edwards. They even shared the same birthday, although Edward was two years older than Edwinas thirty-five.