Schmétterling

𝙸 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚋𝚘𝚛𝚗 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊𝚗 𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚗 𝚟𝚘𝚒𝚍, 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚖𝚖𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚙𝚞𝚛𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚎

𝙸 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚋𝚘𝚛𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚙𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚊𝚗 𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚝𝚢 𝚌𝚞𝚙

𝙸 𝚒𝚗𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚊 𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐

𝙸 𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚋𝚞𝚝—𝚗𝚘—

it's not enough.

'mentally ill'

'evil'

they love labels

they cant function properly without them

stuff themselves into boxes

sew tapestries of heaven across their eyes

fold limbs into geometric structures

gutting the competition

'friendly fire'

but

the nothing we are birthed from

rips apart the threads binding my bliss

I am always

one

step

behind,

no matter how long i grow my legs.

i can comprehend it

i can understand it

i can grasp it

but

never fully

born to understand

and never to 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚎

to watch them walk

never alongside

though i walk beside them, amongst them,

𝘪𝘵 𝘪𝘴 𝘢 𝘧𝘢ç𝘢𝘥𝘦

i have a hole where i

should have 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐

and when i look inside the

ｈｏｌｅ

i find a place where

i can drown

in the absence of

𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚠𝚎𝚕𝚕

I had a normal, happy,

early childhood.

I learnt to cry when I was hungry.

𝘳𝘦𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘥.

I was given small toys when I behaved.

𝘳𝘦𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘥.

I was hit when I sunk my teeth into the flesh of my mother's hand,

𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘴𝘦𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦.

I was given a vanilla cupcake with buttercream frosting and rainbow sprinkles on my birthday

not that I was old enough to eat it.

But when I was old enough,

I did not share.

Not because it was my favourite.

Not because it was mine—

Not because I was hungry,

But because I wanted to see if the other kids would cry—

and they did

𝘳𝘦𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘥.

I stared as they screamed and cried and collapsed to the floor in a histrionic tantrum,

and I felt indifferent.

My parents berated me for an hour.

𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘴𝘦𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦.

I learnt not to do that again,

not in front of them.

At age seven, I attended an academic school in Hagen.

I replaced rewards with results.

I pushed a girl off from the swings.

Her cries were garish on impact with the ground—she was carried to an ambulance,

violently sobbing the entire way.

𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘶𝘭𝘵.

The teachers later sat me down, "—she severely sprained her ankle—imagine yourself in her shoes—"

they seethed when I showed not remorse,

but instead, disregard—

apathy.

𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘴𝘦𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦.

At the time, I understood that I was being punished. That my actions had a price.

...I could not understand why my reaction resulted in emotional escalation.

𝘏𝘰𝘸 𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨 𝘶𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘱 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨—

𝘞𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘸𝘰𝘮𝘢𝘯 𝘩𝘪𝘵 𝘮𝘦—

They asked me why I did that—why I pushed her off that swing.

I did not speak.

because—truthfully—

I always knew what was going to happen

and perhaps,

I pushed her

just because

i could.

and when I was finally expelled,

it meant nothing.

𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘶𝘭𝘵.

I knew they were trying to reason against violence.

but what they really taught me was to be careful

methodical, with my execution

so that they never gain knowledge that I committed said violence.

so that I am not punished.

𝘚𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘐 𝘢𝘮 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘳𝘦𝘫𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘦𝘥

because social acceptance is the only currency

that I knew and valued at that time.

It is the only real currency that defines an individual's place in society,

𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘵𝘩 𝘧𝘢𝘣𝘳𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘧𝘰𝘳

𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚎 𝚜𝚠𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚜

𝚒𝚝 𝚌𝚕𝚊𝚠𝚜 𝚊𝚝 𝚖𝚢 𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚜𝚝

A line of black dots march across the compacted soil in an orderly line, from the grass to the timber posts. I kneel before them, watching them haul the tiniest crumbs of toast from the cafeteria to their kingdom beyond the picket fence. Highly organized, meaningless, specks of dust within a gust of wind that is reality. I nudge at the line. The dots scatter. I prod further up. I watch as the line evolves into an erratic pattern, slowly dispersing in all directions in desperate attempt to outrun their unavoidable, inescapable death. I trample on every dot I can find. and when I check the soles of my little pink sandals, they are not soiled in the shade of maroon I expected, but a clear yellow and pulpy black. Death is a metronome and nobody knows when it's pendulum will move. All I did was nudge them closer to the inevitable. In a way, it was always their fate to end to me. Innocence is a false concept, and I remind myself how to feel.

The girl's parents were quite frightened of me.

simply because I lacked the feet to fit their daughter's shoes.

They told my parents that I needed help, and soon after my mother and father sent me to visit my first behavioural therapist.

𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘶𝘭𝘵.

They showed me videos of weeping children, imagery of horrors and taxidermy butterflies,

'—this child is distressed. These creatures were killed for enjoyment—'

I had perfect scores.

Eventually, they passed me along to a new counsellor—my scores alone were not enough.

𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘶𝘭𝘵.

They said I was very 'intelligent' and

very,

'sick'.

that I was suffering from a mental condition

'conduct disorder'

They felt I needed to 'reconnect'.

They asked me the same questions, showed me similar images and audios— and I answered them all correctly again.

They still weren't satisfied.

they kept bringing me back.

𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘶𝘭𝘵.

eventually I realised that it wasn't my answers that were incorrect.

it was my reactions,

or rather

the lack thereof.

A month passed when I was sent to a child psychologist. I was arranged—'fated', to be sent to a facility—they had already predicted I would fail

The sole purpose of this visit was to get it down on paper.

'official'.

But—this time, I answered differently.

I gave expressions, instead of accuracy.

I smiled—

I frowned—

I laughed—

I cried—

like I should.

like

I

𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍

They left me alone after that.

My parents were permitted to pull me from the program—despite the behaviour I had shown only weeks prior

and they embraced me with normalcy.

𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘶𝘭𝘵.

They chose ignorance—

𝘕𝘰, 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘤𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘦 𝘦𝘧𝘧𝘪𝘤𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘺

Fabricating my perceived innocence—that I were a normal child—was easier than sending me to therapy. Easier than teaching me to 'reconnect'.

i started playing along.

But that—

that is when I finally began to realise,

it was not my understanding of emotional experience—

but the ability to share it.

In that moment, I understood the concept of empathy...

and also the moment I realised,

I did not have it.

𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚊𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚜

𝚒𝚝

𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚞𝚖𝚎𝚜

𝚋𝚎𝚕𝚘𝚠 𝚖𝚢 𝚏𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚑

My father worked as a private investigator.

He was killed shortly after my thirteenth birthday,

"workplace accident",

they said.

𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘭𝘪𝘦𝘥

When his funeral came—I mimicked the sobbing woman who is my mother,

shedding tears that did not belong to me.

Her friends caressed my wetted cheeks, projecting their own empathy onto me—believing they and I share a common internal world,

offering sympathy to a false stimulus.

𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘶𝘭𝘵.

The following months were exceptionally grim for my mother.

In a way, I understood her grief—

but soon the sight of her became

pathetic.

She'd erupt into destructive hysterics whenever I walked in on her sobbing.

I would often leave her room with bruises decorated on the cheeks that were once caressed.

She became an alcoholic, the drunken stupor now a chronic state. She was irrational,

her image quickly warped from 'mother'

to an obstacle.

She despised me,

and I could not bring myself to care.

like I know that i should.

She could not accept her own resentment towards the child of her own flesh and blood,

so we fled the truth,

by fleeing Germany.

1972,

I sought friendship at my new school

Though I was socially rejected.

The German education system was more academically demanding than the American system,

and my peers proved to be profoundly envious.

I was pushed from the swing during second break.

this one was higher.

i broke my elbow.

The individuals who did not laugh along with the three perpetrators, watched solemnly from afar.

My cries were garish on impact with the crude gravel and concrete.

I was carried to an ambulance, violently sobbing the entire way.

𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘪𝘥 𝘴𝘪𝘹 𝘺𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘴 𝘢𝘨𝘰

𝘢 𝘤𝘳𝘶𝘦𝘭 𝘨𝘢𝘮𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘤𝘰𝘱𝘺 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘱𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘦

the tears

i think they were salty

the tears got those three children expelled.

𝘰𝘶𝘵𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦.

I watched with a cast fastened to my arm as their mothers and parent counterparts dragged them from the campus grounds,

their tears left marks on the bitumen where they wailed and sulked and plead themselves innocent.

𝘐 𝘥𝘪𝘥 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘢𝘥𝘷𝘰𝘤𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘮𝘺 𝘪𝘯𝘯𝘰𝘤𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦

𝘈𝘯𝘥—𝘐 𝘥𝘪𝘥 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘮𝘱𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘪𝘯𝘧𝘭𝘶𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘮𝘺 𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘴' 𝘰𝘱𝘪𝘯𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘰𝘧 𝘮𝘦—

𝘐 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘮𝘱𝘵.

but they craved validation.

I did not.

𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘳𝘪𝘧𝘪𝘦𝘥 𝘰𝘧 𝘳𝘦𝘫𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯.

and in a way, perhaps I was, too.

In that moment, I saw it clearly;

The sheer size of the gap between me and these people—

The gap between me—

and this 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘭𝘥

But with that, I saw something I previously did not

before me, I beheld the system that held my limbs with strings as invisible and as false as hope

from within the collective body that is 'society', I witnessed the structure that decided justice from it's counterparts

it's lies from the chosen truth; more lies

-

I discovered how to pull my own strings.

𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚜

𝚒𝚝 𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚜 𝚖𝚎 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗

When I was fifteen, I began to flex my fingers

I began building her;

Kind,

Gentle,

Empathetic,

Humane.

A tandem of fallacies that allowed me to blend in.

A line of black dots march across the concrete path leading between the school buildings in an orderly line. Now I stand before the small, diminutive organisms. Colonies subjected to absolute conformity. Efficiency, is their only purpose. Blind to being meaningless. Blind to being a single, replaceable resource. They operate on simple reflexes, rather than complex emotions that humans do. Yet the structure that is their meaning, resembles that of a human— A microscopic gear in a massive machine. A drop within an ocean that no longer recognises unique individuals. I do not poke or prod. I leave the line to the inevitability. I leave with clean mary janes. For I am being watched and I remind myself again what makes up 𝘩𝘦𝘳. I am kind. I am gentle. I am empathetic. I am human.

I am null.

To my class, I emulated that of someone likeable—

pleasant.

with every inviting smile I gave,

every empty sheet I helped fill,

every meaningless interaction between me and my classmates,

gradually, I received popularity in volumes I have never had before.

only by a fraction.

but regardless, it was leverage.

safety.

𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘶𝘭𝘵.

I gained friends—who offered me trust.

who offered me secrets—

powerful information they blindly believed I'd keep confidential with a promise as fickle as 'To the grave'.

𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘶𝘭𝘵.

I learned how to 'guilt trip', how to manipulate someone's emotions into feeling 'guilty' or 'responsible' for my own suffering.

To my performance of suffering.

To my false stimulus.

To my crocodile tears.

When I was sixteen years old, I met her.

Her,

who sat at the desk beside mine.

𝘐 𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘣𝘦𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘣𝘶𝘳𝘥𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘰𝘯 𝘮𝘦

'𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪 𝘢𝘮 𝘴𝘶𝘱𝘱𝘰𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦'

soon,

we'd make little drawings in the dirt at recess.

we broke the rules that didn't matter because she didn't care about the consequences.

I saw her small smile as she tore small fragments of cheese from her carelessly composed ham sandwich, and offered it to a lone, stray ant.

In the soil before her was a messy illustration of a butterfly, it had swirly antennae and six sets of wings. It resembled nothing of a real butterfly. A work of fiction. "Just go with your heart." she told me. it's hard to go with your heart when you can't feel what's in it.

She ran her stick through the dirt. She made a butterfly for me.

𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚋𝚢 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎

𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚙𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚜

I don't recall a lot of that year.

Except for her.

Her.

Her, who made herself a tacky bracelet of beads, an alternating pattern of pale pink and black—

Her, who made me something matching, a bracelet of beads—an alternating pattern of black and pale yellow

my 'favourite' colours

three of the beads had letters on them

they spelt out;

b

f

f

'best friends forever'.

𝘢 𝘧𝘢𝘭𝘴𝘦 𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘰𝘭𝘰𝘨𝘺.

I wore it every day.

𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘪𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴𝘯'𝘵 𝘮𝘦 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘢𝘥𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘦𝘭𝘦𝘵 𝘧𝘰𝘳

𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘰𝘦𝘴𝘯'𝘵 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘰𝘭𝘦

at the time

I did not know what it was,

but

gradually

in increments

she

merged

and phased through my fingernails

then into my arm

shoulder

through my lung

breathing

with me

materializing

my second half filling half of the hollow

"Oh but Genevieve, it'll be fun!" she said. "But we'll get in trouble." I said back. My hand is gripped tightly in hers as she runs ahead, past the insignificant flowers of the meadow, and through the diamond link fence that we all thought marked the limits of our freedom. Past the lies. She laughs because she can't hold it in. She laughs and it is supposed to be contagious. I laugh because she does. I laugh because I'm supposed to. But then there is a part of me, that is laughing because I know it feeds her craving for reciprocity. And that part of me knows it makes her happy. We stop in the centre of the clearing, collapsing onto the scrubby grass in a state of ecstasy. Our chests heave, backs against the grass. We are children. A butterfly flutters over our heads, it's delicate wings are of a fluorescent yellow, a noticeable contrast the the blinding blue sky. "I love butterflies!" she said. "I love them too." I said back. A butterfly of fragile blue joins it, engaging in a dance of irregular as they swoop and flutter about the sky in our visions.

"What is 'butterfly' in your home language?" she asks me "Schmétterling." I tell her.

I held hands with a boy.

He, who was serial liar.

The others don't know about that, though.

Cindy doesn't.

Her.

She wouldn't like him otherwise. She said she hates liars.

s𝘩𝘦'𝘥 𝘩𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘮𝘦

It didn't take much prodding for him to calibrate at my request.

it was like tearing apart a petal.

𝘪 𝘮𝘢𝘥𝘦 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘵𝘦𝘭𝘭 𝘮𝘦

𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘣𝘦𝘤𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘦

𝘪 𝘤𝘢𝘯

𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘪𝘵 𝘧𝘦𝘭𝘵

𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦

𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨

The brown hue of his hair inherited from his father—

and his black truth tendencies from the mother, who abandoned his household years ago.

𝘰𝘳 𝘴𝘰 𝘴𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘧𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘴.

the warmth of his hand dissolved in the palm of mine as we passed the classroom doors, filled with prodigies and stoners and jocks and loners and the meaningless systems and structures of 'cliques'

and Her.

Her whose feet were planted at the end of the hall

and I

I will never forget the way

she looked at me

like i was a

ₘₒₙₛₜₑᵣ

the sheer fascination of

watching her expression distort

shock

hurt

"Cindy, please, it was nothing. We are so much more than him, Cindy. Cindy, please answer me... don't just sit there. Cindy, please! Why won't you listen to me? Why are you just— don't walk— Cindy—wait—"

𝘯𝘰 𝘮𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘪 𝘥𝘰

𝘪𝘵𝘴 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘦𝘯𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩

𝘶𝘯𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘱𝘰𝘯𝘴𝘪𝘷𝘦.

𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘢 𝘣𝘰𝘺

'Voices carry.'

The next time I walked down that hallway, I was met with stares.

rejection.

shun.

I have read many books, of theories of ontogeny.

"rejection and ridicule are always painful, no matter the format."

A promise of pain, no matter the format.

𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘴𝘢𝘪𝘥 𝘪 𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘦𝘳𝘷𝘦 𝘪𝘵

I found my mask burning with the inferno that is cruelty and betrayal,

a fire whose kindling I had cultivated myself.

𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘶𝘭𝘵.

Though it was not my bittered reputation I found myself dwelling on,

but the girl who simply walked away

whose long, dirt brown locks billowed

whose fleeting back I was forced to watch

as my second half

was silently torn from me

by none other

𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯

𝚖𝚢 𝚘𝚠𝚗

𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢

𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘴.

A pretty, adolescent blonde commits atrocities. I can't hear her voice over my wails. Again. Again. She hits me again. Over and over again. I shrieked as her hand repeatedly met with my skull. The dissolving of my mask brought the absence of safety. Reputation no longer protects me. The losers watch and smile because they know their natural predators have found a new entertainment. My head connects with the dirt I used to watch Her draw butterflies on, and the pretty blonde presses her shoe against my ear. Her fingers curl around forearm, pulling further and further and further and—

A scream rips from my throat.

something happened after

so bad my memories

discarded

blank.

𝘪𝘵 𝘥𝘰𝘦𝘴𝘯'𝘵 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘴𝘦

𝘪 𝘵𝘦𝘭𝘭 𝘮𝘺𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘳𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘢𝘭.

𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘴.

𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚎

𝚋𝚎𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚞𝚛𝚝

I threw a rock in the river. I did not know how deep that rock would go.

blank.

I spent a few years living from the window beside my hospital bed.

"Genevieve... I'm so sorry... my sweet baby. You know I love you, right?"

blank.

When I was 18, I was officially diagnosed with antisocial personality disorder.

something happened after

my memories have forsaken it

blank.

hole

i am thrown back into the desolates that have been consuming since conception

for a reason that's been replaced with oblivion

blank

i don't think i ever said 'sorry'.

i never was

and

Her

who stalks me

even into death

not, 'death'

the time i spend in nothing

not regretting

do attachment and love hold the same definition?

like i'm always missing something

why did she turn away

why did she not scream and hit me

why

was i deprived

of my sensation?

my existence

is now a term of past tense

disattached from the cruel world

who burned me

when i breathed

for

i am

null.