Butterfly

Copyright © 11 February 2014 Patrick Khoo

We live and we get by, and we count the passing of the days like the shadowed pulse of butterfly wings reflected upon the walls of the corridor of time. Michelle Chew

It felt like he was just floating, neither coming nor going, nor bobbing in calming waves. All around him, everything was white, as if there were no floors, walls or ceilings. And yet, from an undetermined direction he could only describe as above and in front, there came a strong, blazing hot light. Somehow, he could sense a shadow behind him. Unfortunately, every time he turned around, he could not see his own shadow, his tail forever beyond the reach of his chase. With every twist and turn, attempting to see his own image in vain, he could tell, he could feel, that something was slipping by. Something that was unseen, unnoticed and unstoppable. A thing like a silent breeze ambling stealthily past him from one direction to another, as if channeled by a greater force. This thought made him stop. It made him shudder. For something was wrong, but he could not place it. Until he looked at himself and his hands. It was black, thin, long and most of all, fingerless. Making up for his digitless limbs, were six hands. Or was it six feet. His body was black as well, sharply contrasting with both the whiteness all around and the bright light shining from some distant above. Trepidation filled him and his heart beat faster. For a moment, it seemed like he had two hearts beating in time with each other. A ba-dub-dub thumping under which great songs could be based upon. But as his senses grew keener, he knew it wasn't a second heart. It was the steady rhythmic beating of his large, beautiful, colour-splashed, delicate, strong wings on his back. That is when he knew he was trapped and frozen and suspended. And there he would stay, forever counting the passing of the days like the shadowed pulse of his butterfly wings reflected upon the walls of the corridor of time.

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