Part One

  Dead Butterflies

  Pop.

  The tough, cloth board bound in a wooden frame made a tearing pop noise as Thomas watched his mother stick a pin through a dead butterfly’s thorax. It was a monarch, common in late September, that his younger sister, Jenna, had found in the yard. Jenna insisted it was already dead, lying stiff among the flowers near the swing set. Now, pinned and motionless, it looked even more lifeless than before - if that was possible.

  It wouldn't surprise him, however, if she had accidentally played with the insect a little too roughly. While she was usually knowledgeable and gentle, she was still only five. Thomas remembered how she’d once cupped a ladybug in her small hands, peeking through the cracks of her fingers every few seconds to check on it. When she finally revealed her prize, the poor bug was squished flat; crushed accidentally between the child's palms. Jenna's wails had echoed through the house for hours, and no amount of ice cream or hugs could console her. Jenna had cried for hours, inconsolable.

  Now, as Thomas watched his mother work, he couldn’t help but feel a twinge of unease. The monarch's wings, once a brilliant orange and black, now seemed dull against the board. His mother's hands moved with the ease of practice, tweezers delicately adjusting paper-thin wings.

  His mother didn't look up, focused on adjusting the butterfly's wings. "It's not creepy, it's art. And educational," she added, a hint of defensiveness creeping into her voice. "Your grandma showed me how when I was your age."

  "Yeah, but Grandma's weird too," Thomas muttered under his breath.

  His mom's hands stilled. She fixed him with a look, eyebrows raised. "I heard that, smartass. You know, there's more to this than playing taxidermist with pretty bugs."

  Thomas snorted. "Like what? A future serial killer origin story?"

  His mother sighed, shaking her head. "You've been watching too many crime shows, kiddo."

  Thomas rolled his eyes and turned away from his mom, his attention caught by Jenna prancing around the dining room. Her butterfly costume flapped with each twirl, the plastic wings smacking against chairs and table legs. She shrieked with glee, arms outstretched like she was about to take flight. The late afternoon sun caught the glitter on Jenna’s wings, scattering tiny rainbows across the walls while she danced. Every few spins, she'd pause by their mother's shoulder, ready to share yet another butterfly fact she'd memorized.

  “Did you know butterflies' taste with their feet?” she announced, her voice squeaky, yet monotone and robotic, lacking the emotion her excited, flapping fingers told. Thomas let out an exaggerated groan.

  Thomas slumped back in his chair with a sigh that was drowned out by Jenna's excited squeals. His sister had two modes: silent, or rattling off butterfly facts at full volume. He'd watch her light up, hands fluttering as she rattled off trivia, and feel a mix of affection and irritation twisting in his gut. Just yesterday, she'd tailed him for half an hour, yammering about monarchs and magnetic fields while he tried to do his chores. When he finally snapped, telling her to zip it, her face crumpled like a crushed soda can.

  His mom says this is just her way of sharing her love, and that sometimes, people with autism show love a bit differently. Thomas got it, sort of. But it didn't make it any less annoying. And then he'd feel like crap for being annoyed, like he was rejecting her weird, wing-flapping version of sisterly love. It was exhausting, really.

  "Hey, did you know butterflies can't fly if their body temperature is below 86 degrees?" Jenna piped up suddenly.

  Thomas groaned. "Fascinating," he muttered, wondering if he could get away with stuffing cotton in his ears.

  Jenna's butterfly obsession started early. At two, a blue butterfly landed on her nose and that was it. Game over. From then on, it was all butterflies, all the time. It was like someone flipped a switch. Everything became butterflies: her clothes, her toys, her life. She even made up some imaginary butterfly friend called "The Butterfly Maiden." Between the constant facts and her invisible winged buddy, he was starting to think his sister might actually be part butterfly herself. At least that would explain the flapping, spinning, and overwhelming obsession.

  The Butterfly Maiden was Jenna's newest fixation, entering her vocabulary about a month back. "She only comes when it's dark," Jenna would insist with that serious little nod of hers. According to his sister, the Maiden's appearances were something straight out of a fairy tale -a cascade of butterflies that painted the air like a living rainbow. Thomas just sighed whenever she launched into these short-winded- but very frequent- stories, trying his best to tune her out.

  Thomas watched through half-lidded eyes as his mom wrapped up her morbid arts and crafts project, carefully placing it in the bay window to dry. As always, she told Jenna not to touch it, and as always five-year-old Jenna- ever curious and ever impulsive- would eventually disregard their mother and touch the butterfly.

  Sure enough, the next morning proved his prediction right. Thomas shuffled into the kitchen, still groggy and fumbling for his cereal bowl, when he caught Jenna frozen by the bay window. Her guilty stance told him everything he needed to know.

  Thomas sighed, rubbing his eyes. "Jenna, come on. Mom literally just told you not to mess with the butterfly."

  Jenna whirled around, hands clasped behind her back like she was hiding a smoking gun. Her eyes locked onto Thomas, blinking at machine-gun speed.

  Thomas rolled his eyes. “Put it down or I’m gonna tell mom.”

  She didn’t answer, but Thomas didn’t expect her to. Jenna's face scrunched up, her lips pressed into a thin line. She stood stock-still, arms rigid at her sides as she just…stared at him, squeezing her eyes shut tight every few seconds. The silence stretched for a moment more, broken only by the soft ticking of the kitchen clock.

  "Last chance, bug girl," Thomas warned, his voice edged with impatience. "Your choice."

  Thomas stormed over to Jenna, his patience worn thin. She clutched the frame tighter as he reached around her, trying to wrestle it free. The more he pulled, the more she squirmed.

  No!" Jenna shrieked, twisting away from his grasp.

  His fingers closed around the wooden frame while his other hand gripped her arm. Years of her getting special treatment, of her getting away with everything just because she was little, just because she was different, bubbled up inside him.

  "Give it," he demanded, yanking harder.

  Jenna's knuckles went white against the dark wood as she clung to it. Her whole body trembled with the effort of keeping hold.

  "I said give it to me!" Thomas's voice came out as a growl, his grip tightening on her arm. Jenna let out a small whimper and jerked back suddenly. The frame slipped from her fingers, clattering against the kitchen tiles. They both stared at it for a moment before Thomas bent down and snatched it up.

  The monarch remained mostly unscathed, except for a jagged tear in its right wing where a pin had ripped through during their struggle. Thomas glanced at Jenna, her face a mess of snot and tears. A twinge of guilt wormed its way into his chest, but it was quickly squashed by a surge of vindication. She'd brought this on herself, hadn't she? If she'd just listened to Mom for once instead of pawing at everything like some grabby toddler...

  "This is what happens when you don't listen," Thomas muttered, his voice low and harsh. Jenna's sobs hitched up a notch, but he refused to cave. Maybe now she'd learn to keep her hands to herself.

  "What in the world is going on here?"

  Thomas flinched at his mother's voice, sharp as a whip crack. She burst into the kitchen, eyes darting between her children before zeroing in on Jenna's tear-streaked face.

  "Oh, sweetie," she cooed, dropping to her knees in front of the sniffling five-year-old. "What happened? Are you hurt?"

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Thomas rolled his eyes as his mom fussed over Jenna, checking for imaginary injuries and peppering her with questions. Of course, it was all about precious little Jenna. Again.

  "Thomas?" His mother's voice hardened as she glanced up at him. "Care to explain?"

  He shrugged, voice flat. "She was messing with your butterfly thing. I told her to stop."

  His mom's eyes narrowed, clearly not buying his oversimplified version of events. "Uh-huh. And how exactly did you 'tell her to stop'?"

  Before Thomas could think of an excuse, Jenna's hiccuping voice cut through the tension. "The Butterfly Maiden told me I could touch it," she whimpered between sobs.

  Their mother's eyes swept the kitchen, taking in the scene - from Jenna's blotchy, tear-stained face to Thomas's stony expression, then down to the frame lying on the floor. "What really happened here, Thomas?"

  "She never listens to anyone!" Thomas snapped, his voice rising. "You specifically told her to leave it alone, and she just had to touch it anyway. Someone needed to stop her!"

  His mother pulled Jenna closer, stroking her hair. "That's not your responsibility, Thomas." She paused, her voice taking on an edge. "Did you grab her?"

  "No," Thomas said flatly, the lie bitter on his tongue.

  Standing there watching his mom comfort Jenna, Thomas felt the familiar resentment bubble up. Of course his sister would get all the sympathy - she always did. Nothing ever changed.

  "You're grounded. Hand over your Switch."

  "Are you kidding me?" Thomas exploded, fists clenched. "This is such bull-"

  "Language," his mom warned, her voice steel.

  Thomas glared at Jenna, who was still sniffling. "It's her fault! She never listens!"

  His mom's eyes narrowed. "Upstairs. Now."

  Muttering under his breath, Thomas stomped towards the stairs. "It's called a Switch," he grumbled.

  Thomas stormed into his room, slamming the door with a satisfying bang. He yanked the Switch from its dock and flopped onto his bed

  with enough force to make the springs creak, scowling at the ceiling. His thumbs flicked the joysticks aimlessly as he fumed.

  "This is such crap," he muttered. "Little Miss Can't-Keep-Her-Hands-to-Herself breaks the rules, and I'm the one who gets punished? Typical."

  He tossed the Switch aside. The unfairness of it all burned in his chest. Jenna got away with everything, and he was always the bad guy. It didn't matter that he was trying to enforce Mom's rules - apparently, that was a crime now too.

  "God forbid the precious butterfly princess faces any consequences," Thomas grumbled, kicking at his bedpost. "Nope, can't upset her delicate feelings. Meanwhile, I get treated like some juvenile delinquent for trying to stop her."

  He rolled over, burying his face in his pillow with a frustrated groan. Sometimes he wondered if his mom even noticed him anymore, or if Jenna's "special needs" had permanently eclipsed everything else in their lives.

  "Thomas!" His mom's voice cut through his brooding like a drill sergeant's bark. "Get down here now!"

  "Jesus, I'm coming!" Thomas hollered back, launching himself off the bed with enough force to make the frame groan in protest. He kicked his basketball as hard as he could. It slammed against the wall with a satisfying bang before rolling into the hallway, coming to rest mockingly in front of Jenna's door.

  "Screw it," Thomas muttered, leaving the ball where it lay. He stomped down the stairs, each step a punctuation mark of defiance. Halfway down, he nearly collided with Jenna, who stood frozen on the landing. Her eyes were red-rimmed saucers, staring at him with a mix of fear and confusion.

  "What?" Thomas snapped, shouldering past her. "Never seen someone get in trouble before? Must be nice."

  Jenna's lip quivered, but Thomas was already gone, taking the last few steps two at a time. He rounded the corner into the kitchen, bracing himself for whatever lecture awaited him.

  ********

  Thomas flopped onto his bed, staring at the ceiling as moonlight spilled through his window. The clock read 9:30 PM - prime gaming time. He glanced at the empty Switch dock, feeling the itch in his fingers. One measly hour a day was torture. But his mom's "no screens after dinner" was stupid. And Thomas didn’t listen to stupid rules.

  He'd perfected the art of stealth gaming. Quick taps muted the console as footsteps approached. A practiced swipe sent it under his pillow seconds before his door creaked open. His mom would poke her head in, see him "sleeping," and retreat. Then it was back to grinding levels until his eyes burned.

  Tonight though, the Switch was MIA - probably held hostage in his mom's room. Thomas groaned, already feeling the withdrawal. This grounding was going to suck.

  Of course, Jenna got off easy. A slightly earlier bedtime? Big whoop. Meanwhile, Thomas was stuck in digital purgatory, his precious Switch hostage to his mom's overreaction. He flopped onto his stomach, burying his face in his pillow with a muffled groan. It was always like this - Jenna screws up, and somehow he ends up paying the price. The unfairness of it all churned in his gut, a bitter cocktail of resentment and frustration. He kicked his heel against the mattress, imagining it was his sister's stupid butterfly collection. "Just once," he muttered into the fabric, "I'd like to see her face some real consequences."

  A high-pitched giggle pierced the silence, yanking Thomas from his sullen thoughts. He blinked, suddenly aware of the sliver of hallway visible through his barely-open door – a habit he'd never bothered to break. A weird, flickering glow seeped in, painting a sliver of his room in shifting hues. Thomas sat up, scrubbing at his eyes and peering towards the gap. He swung his legs off the bed and crept towards the door.

  Thomas crept down the hall, wincing as the old floorboards creaked under his feet. He paused, but the house remained silent. As he neared Jenna's room, a bizarre light show greeted him. Pulsing colors danced across the walls, transforming the normally dull hallway into some kind of trippy fun house. Thomas blinked hard, wondering if he was still half-asleep. But the weird light show continued, spilling out from under Jenna's door like she was hosting a secret rave for five-year-olds.

  “Yes,” Jenna's voice drifted through the gap, higher and more sing-song than usual. Something about her tone made Thomas's skin crawl. A beat of silence, then: "More. Show me more pretty things."

  Silence followed, then Jenna giggled again.

  The air tasted metallic as Thomas pressed against Jenna’s doorframe. Her nightlight shouldn’t cast shadows that rippled like water. Through the crack he saw wings—dozens of them—beating in perfect silence against her strawberry-pink walls. Not painted ones. Real wings, if real wings could be spun from stained glass and cigarette smoke.

  Jenna knelt barefoot on carpet that wasn’t hers anymore - her rug had melted into a pool of velvety moss dotted with mushrooms and strange white flowers. Her hands cupped empty air as if cradling water. "More glow," she whispered to nothing. "More wings."

  Thomas squinted, his eyes struggling to make sense of the scene. The curtains billowed, yet the window was closed. A strange, shimmering prism of light danced around Jenna’s head like a crown, twisting and curling, undulating and wavering, and it didn’t take long for Thomas to realize that it resembled clasped hands. Cold spread through Thomas’s ribcage like injected ink, starting inward and spreading out. What was this?

  "Tommy’s peeking," Jenna sang, voice syrup-sweet yet hollow as cicada husks. Her voice sounded wrong.

  The shimmering light around Jenna's head twisted and rose, arranging itself into something vaguely feminine, but made entirely of shifting rainbow hues and ethereal glow. A sound filled Thomas’s skull- not through ears, but teeth- like millions of insect wings beating in unison, the sensation intensified until his whole head buzzed. He pressed his palms against his ears, but it did nothing to muffle the otherworldly drone.

  Jenna tilted her head just a little too far left. “Tommy?” Her voice buzzed with wings trapped in a jar. “Did you know that butterflies eat dead things?”

  Thomas's jaw clenched, words dying in his throat as icy panic seized him. The glowing figure drifted closer, closer, closer. God, it was so close now. Inches from his face, but he couldn’t move, couldn’t think. The terror wound down his spine like firm roots that planted him in place.

  “The Butterfly Maiden says you’ll learn,” Jenna chirped.

  The light engulfed Thomas, its icy tendrils seeping into his bones. He gasped, struggling against the alien chill that crept through his veins. This wasn't right. It felt... wrong. Invasive. Like reality itself was warping around him.

  "J-Jenna?" he choked out, his voice barely a whisper.

  But Jenna just stared, her eyes unfocused and gleaming with an unnatural sheen. The Butterfly Maiden's form flickered and pulsed, casting Thomas in a kaleidoscope of impossible colors.

  Thomas tried to back away, but his legs wouldn't move. The light tightened around him, a cocoon of cold, alien energy. He could feel it probing, searching, as if trying to unravel the very essence of who he was.

  There was a brief pressure on his forehead, sharp and icy. It bloomed between Thomas’s eyes, spreading outward like frost on a window. In the split second before everything went dark, his vision swam with multitudes of coalescing colors.

  Then, nothing.