THE BUTTERFLY WOMAN    

By: Sarah Kelderman

​Rachel’s eyes burned as she sat at her desk, in her cubicle, typing in invoices and answering and directing phone calls. The room was noisy--phones ringing, talking and even laughter, and Rachel could never shake the paranoia that they were laughing at her because she had been such a fool.

She felt something behind her, staring into her back, but when she turned there was nothing, just a glimpse of a shadow figure that made her palms clammy.

“More invoices.” The voice made her start, made her heart pound, but it was just her boss Violet--a fierce woman in immaculate office attire, pencil skirt and white blouse. She frowned at Rachel.

“You look like shit,” she said. “Your work performance is down. You need to speed things up.” She slammed the invoices on the already massive pile by Rachel’s keyboard.

“Okay,” said Rachel. “I’ll try harder.”

“Oh you will, or your ass is fired.” The threat made that dark cloud of dread over her head intensify. She couldn’t help her work performance. She couldn’t concentrate. She couldn’t sleep. She stayed up late writing poetry no one would ever read. Numbers blurred before her eyes. She was a failure at her soul sucking job as a receptionist. How sad was that.

“Get that pile done before you leave. I don’t care if it’s Friday.”

“I’ll try,” said Rachel.

“You will.” Her boss walked away, high heels clacking, the sound rising above all other office noises, pounding in Rachel’s ears, making her head ache. Voices all around her, mocking and laughing at her stupidity. She needed to get out of here, suddenly felt like she was suffocating, but she made herself stay and concentrate the best she could on her meaningless work.

#

When she finished, an hour after she was supposed to clock out, it was raining, and she shivered on her way out to her car, deflated and hugging her black coat to herself.

She walked through the mostly empty parking lot, just a few vacant vehicles, and her hands shook as she unlocked her car. Safely inside she locked the doors. She rummaged through her bag for  her phone. Her and her boyfriend Kyle were supposed to go out that night, but she felt too scared to and wanted to text him and see if he’d be willing to just hang at her place and watch movies.

She was surprised to see she had a text from him. He never texted her. She opened it with trepidation. The cloud of dread descended as she read his text, which stated he wanted to break up with her, that he didn’t want to see her anymore, that he’d met someone else.

#

“What a fucking asshole,” her roommate Amanda said when Rachel told her.

“Yeah,” said Rachel, putting her bag down on their gleaming clean kitchen table. Amanda was kind of a clean freak, borderline obsessive compulsive about it. She had short blond hair, a nose piercing and wore tight baby tees and torn jeans a lot. She was a hair stylist. Rachel envied her job.

“All you have to say is yeah? I’ll destroy him!”

Rachel didn’t like their patio sliding doors, could feel eyes peering at her from outside. She wanted to close the blinds but was too terrified to move and didn’t want Amanda to notice how afraid she was.

“We were only seeing each other for four months.”

“So what? A fucking text message? He couldn’t even call?” Rachel didn’t say anything. She would never make it as a poet, which is what she’d always wanted to be. She detested her job. She couldn’t keep a boyfriend. And then Rachel came to a realization. Who would really miss her if she was gone? Amanda could just get a new roommate. She was easily replaced at her job. Her now ex-boyfriend wouldn’t care. Her parents and sisters would get over it.

“That’s it. Drink time.” Amanda pulled a bottle of whiskey and two glasses out of the cupboard. “We’re drinking a glass of this and going out dancing. Have some friends I wanted to meet up with. You’ll feel better and we’ll find you a charming man to have a one night stand with.”

The thought of actually going out made Rachel lightheaded. That was not happening, and she had to close those blinds. Her palms were starting to get sweaty.

Amanda shoved a full glass of whiskey in her face. “Drink that. It’ll numb the pain.”

Amanda drank her own glass and rinsed it out in the sink. Rachel didn’t want hers, but she also didn’t want to incur the wrath of Amanda, so she drank the whiskey in one long gulp. It tasted awful, made her mouth and throat burn.

Amanda checked her phone. “Okay,” she said. “Friends coming over in half an hour.  You’d better change.”

“I’m tired. I just want to go to bed.”

“You can’t sit here all night moping. You need to go out. You never go out.”

“You won’t miss me.” The whiskey warmed Rachel’s stomach, made her vision a little fuzzy. She kind of felt like puking. Amanda just rolled her eyes.

“Okay. Whatever. If you want to sit here by yourself and write like you always do, that’s your prerogative.”

#

The alcohol did numb the pain a little, but it also made her dizzy and nauseous. She figured she’d drink some more of it though, just another glass, and it gave her the courage to close the patio blinds.

She sat on the cushy couch in the living room, some movie playing she didn’t pay any attention to. She just drank more whiskey, stared at the bottle. She couldn’t handle the dark cloud of fear and paranoia she always felt anymore. And then she came to yet another realization. There had to be a countless number of unknowns out there, talented writers and musicians and artists throughout the course of history, who had lived unfortunate lives and died in obscurity, their creations lost and forgotten. There had to be so many of them, and suddenly Rachel felt like going for a walk in the rain. Amanda had an expired bottle of alprazolam up in the medicine cabinet, which she’d gotten a prescription for a while ago to help with her temper problems. Rachel thought of all those artists over history, all the lost ones.

She took the pills with another full glass of whiskey. She managed to put on her coat before stumbling out into the rain.

#

​She didn’t care about the chilly rain or the dark sky above, or the shadows lurking around houses and in between the trees. She didn’t care about the eyes peering out at her. She walked along the sidewalk, the world spinning. The streetlights cast dim orange light that illuminated the rain.

She came to a bridge, clutched the railing and looked down at the water below. She wondered how it would feel to jump, how the water would feel when she splashed into it, wondered if it would be like hitting cement, wondered if all the bones in her body would break.

The bridge shook as cars drove past, lights shining through the rain. Bright lights. She clutched the wet railing, put one foot up, but then the world spun and she fell backwards, hitting her head on the cement, and the world turned black.

#

She saw butterflies--all different colors, yellow and red and purple and blue, fluttering their wings, flying around in the blackness, landing on the railing of the bridge and the now dry cement.

The sky above was clear, filled with thousands of bright stars.

She sat up, had the strange sensation of leaving her body. She felt light and translucent, like she could fly away, with all those glittering butterflies, but then the butterflies faded away and it was just her, alone on the bridge.

She stood, disoriented, and wondered if she was dead. She heard the squeaking of a cart and clattering of dishes, and an old woman pushed a silver cart of pots and pans down the middle of the bridge.

She stopped next to Rachel. She wore a white dress and flowery apron, and her hair was long and gray, same color as her eyes.

“Hey, dearie,” she said smiling, revealing crooked teeth.

“Hi,” said Rachel, putting her hood up. “Rough night?”

“Yes.” Rachel had the sudden urge to cry. “Very.”

“Well, come with me. I’ll make you feel better.”

“Who are you?” But the old woman just smiled, revealing those crooked teeth again.

“Come on. I’ll make you a cup of tea.”

Rachel followed the woman and her clattering cart over the bridge, into a thick fog on the other side of it, a chilly and impenetrable fog that made her shiver. Terror suddenly filled her, that she’d become lost forever in it. She stayed close to the old woman and those clattering dishes. The old woman radiated warmth. The fog opened up to a house--a cylindrical house, with vines and flowers entwined around it and again all of those butterflies.

Sunlight shone down, bright and warming. The old woman pushed her cart of dishes through the narrow doorway into the house, and Rachel followed her inside.

They stood in a bright and sunny kitchen, with an oven and fridge and wooden cabinets, table covered with a white table cloth. A vase of daisies rested on the center of the table. Rachel smelled lavender and rose. A tea pot already hissed on the stove.

“Am I dead?” asked Rachel.

“Could be,” said the old woman, going to the tea pot, pouring out two cups. “But I doubt it. Have a seat.”

Rachel sat at the table, in front of her mug. The tea steamed and smelled like peppermint. The old woman sat across from her. She sipped her tea.

“That’s nice,” she said.

“I guess I’m a little confused,” said Rachel.

“Most are who end up here. Are you a poet? I’ve read your work before. Am positive I have.”

“You don’t even know me. How could you have.”

But the old woman just smiled. “I’ve read and listened and enjoyed a lot of different art forms, from a lot of different people, over a long period of time. Forever really.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean just what I said.” Rachel stared at the steam rising from her cup.

“Creative energy doesn’t just go nowhere. It goes out into the world regardless.”

“Now I’m really confused.”

“Let me guess,” said the old woman, setting down her tea. “You’ve come to some misguided realizations.”

“Wouldn’t call them misguided. I mean, they’re not.”

The old woman sighed, shook her head. “How can you be so sure?”

“You don’t even know me.”

“I know your type.”

“How?”

“A creative and artistic soul, saddened by the realities of the world.” Rachel felt like she would start crying again. “Drink your tea. It’ll make you feel better.”

“I’m not thirsty.”

“Okay, Rachel.”

“How’d you know my name? Where am I? Who are you? What is going on? Am I dead? Tell me!”

The old woman frowned. “I’d like to show you something, Rachel.”

#

She led her down a bright, narrow hallway. It opened up to a huge tower room. Sunlight beamed down, blinding at first. Butterflies flew through the air, upwards into the light. At first Rachel couldn’t see anything except that light and the butterflies, but then she saw the artwork on the walls-- beautiful, morphing artwork of a variety of styles and colors. She saw words as well, writing. She heard beautiful music. She heard the voices of all the creators of this artwork, throughout the course of time, the ones whose voices had never been heard, who had never been noticed, who had been forgotten.

It filled Rachel’s mind, overwhelming. It was all somehow here, in this tower room, with the sunlight and butterflies and the old woman. It somehow still existed and forever would and joy filled Rachel, made her heart feel like it would burst from her chest.

All of the souls and dreams, what had been in their hearts, still somehow existing. She wondered if maybe it still even had an impact on the world, all of this positive energy, even if the creators were now just dust and had died in obscurity.

“Now do you see?” said the old woman. “I’ve read your poetry here. It’s all here, all of it, from every creative soul. They turn into butterflies. But I don’t think it’s your time yet to join them. It’s not in vain.”

The sunlight brightened. Rachel had to squint to see the old woman.

“I hope you realize that now, Rachel.”

Sudden nausea hit Rachel, and she heard distant voices and tasted charcoal in her mouth.

“It was nice meeting you, Rachel. We’ll meet again someday.”

The bright sunlight overcame everything, became the entire world, washing out the tower room and old woman, and the voices and music. She had the sensation of rejoining her body and of feeling sick and cold and wet, and through blurry vision saw nurses around her and a doctor, heard voices she couldn’t make out, but she was back in reality.

They forced her to drink more charcoal, and before she lost consciousness she noticed a butterfly near the ceiling, wings yellow and black, some remnant of that tower room. It landed on the shoulder of a nearby nurse. She didn’t notice it. It flew around Rachel’s head, landed briefly on her shoulder, and then it flew upwards, back to the ceiling, leaving a glittering trail behind. It disappeared, and Rachel found she was crying, but it was tears of joy, because she was alive, and the old woman had given her back her hope, and that now things would get better.