On Crimson Wings

“What the caterpillar calls the end of the world, the Master calls the butterfly.”
- Richard Bach

          Timmy slammed the door behind him. His heart was racing, body sweating, muscles aching. His eyes darted carefully across the room. Noticing the table nearby with the rows of family pictures he quickly made a dart for it. He had only seconds. With all the strength his ten year old body could muster he pushed it against the door. He was safe in the room.
          He was safe physically, but his mind was in pain. His mind was racing as he heard the screams of his mother. It was too late. The monster had her. She pleaded and cried for mercy, calling on what forces might rule the world and conjure such suffering. Nothing could save her now.
          A pain in his chest caused the young boy to cough. He covered his mouth with his hands, but when he removed them he saw his own fear. His fingers were covered with his own blood. He immediately looked up and across the room for the cause.
          There it was sitting quietly and calmly on the old piano. The monster flapped its wings a few times, nothing much, but enough to send shivers down the boy’s spine. Maybe it was unaware of its power, but Timmy knew it all too well. It brought with it a plague cast in small sparks of light from its wings. Whether from creature or other source did not matter. It brought fear, that’s what mattered.
          Timmy quickly shoved the table aside and opened the door. He was greeted by the bleeding eyes of his mother. They looked so different than an hour earlier when she had received the package. They held such love in them when she opened the gift to reveal an exotic flower she ordered from a foreign land. And they had held such wonder when the crimson butterfly fluttered out unexpectedly. Now they were painful, hurting and longing for the suffering to be over.
          Timmy cried, the tears streaming down his cheeks. He cried still as his mother reached out and grabbed him, her bloody fingers pulling at his shirt. He didn’t struggle. It was his mother wanting to hold him one last time. He cried still as she slowly fell to the floor, her body limp and no match for the nightmare.
          He screamed when he could feel the flood of tears replaced by the warmth of his own blood.

          A little girl riding a bike stopped abruptly when she heard the shriek of a boy her age. It was not a sound often heard in the quiet neighborhood. She looked to the house where the cry came from. It was like any other, with a large yard, perfect garden and picket fence. It seemed peaceful.
          Her eyes were quickly caught by the glimmer of crimson in the sky. She smiled as a lone butterfly soared above the now gathered crowd. “How pretty,” she thought.


This story written for:

ID: 1063687   (Rated: 18+) A Flicker of Madness  Now open! Weekly supernatural flash fiction contest with a monthly grand prize winner! by AliceNgoreland