It took me twelve years to master my fear of Evelyn. But sometimes, especially at night, it still finds a way to sidle out, terrorizing my mind until dawn.
Right now, I’m struggling to hold back the barriers. Struggling to hold in my own damn urine.
What was I thinking?
I’m an imbecile.
A stupid, selfish, pathetic child.
“What have you got there?” Evelyn’s sharp gaze darts away from me, latching onto my sister where Sybil is trying to burrow into my side. “Show me before I lose my patience.”
Sybil’s tears hitch, her mouth a twisted, shaking mess as she reluctantly turns to Evelyn.
A thin hand stretches out, palm out, and Sybil nearly fumbles the jar as she tries to pass it to Evelyn. Thankfully, my reflexes are excellent, and I snatch it out of the air before it can crash to the ground.
Evelyn sniffs as I hand her the jar, then angles away from us, holding it up to the light.
Despite the faint humming whine of the fluorescent lights, I can hear the butterfly’s wings as they tap against the glass.
“Genus?” Evelyn snaps.
“Plebejus.”
“Species?”
“Northern Blue. Male.”
“How long has it been down here?”
“Two days.”
“You’ve been feeding it?”
“Honey water, soaked into a cotton ball.”
Evelyn’s narrow chest rises as she takes a breath, then she tips the jar over, and unscrews the lid. With it upside down, the butterfly is still trapped as it strives forever upward, to where the sky used to be.
Sybil wipes the back of her hand over her eyes, her crying having simmered down to a sullen, “Uhu-uhu.”
But she must hold her breath then, because there’s silence as Evelyn reaches into the jar and snatches out the butterfly by an iridescent sapphire wing.
Wing dust floats down as the insect’s struggles grow more violent. I know they’re actually tiny little scales, but with the fluorescent lights glaring down, they look more like fairy dust than ever.
“You caught this for Sybil.”
“Yes.”
“Howniceof you.”
I think it’s my imagination. Evelyn’s voice is always the same monotonous drone, every consonant perfectly articulated yet somehow lacking any intonation whatsoever.
But I hear it now.
The tiniest emphasis she puts onnice.
Just like I immediately answer anything asked of me, I know to step back when Evelyn advances on Sybil. It’s an automatic gesture, like ducking when someone raises a hand to strike.
I might have put Sybil in this position, but it’s survival of the fittest. I’m not ending up as collateral damage.
