Butterfly - 11

The aged man lay on the bed, his aching body shivering uncontrollably. He arched his back and the sheets rolled off his speckled robe. He heard them rustle on the floor and he smelled the dust. He saw the wooden ceiling, dark swirls, light splashes. The pain eased away and he lay back to rest. His body straightened out and his clear blue eyes pierced through the hazy light. His fingers clenched around the smooth wooden railing that circled his bed. The pain faded completely and the dust stopped falling. Leaves froze outside his window, their grace kept forever in slight curves and twists. The sunlight stopped shimmering. The shadows deepened and light burst in clear color. His room door opened and he saw a young man standing there. The boy held a long scythe and wore the long black robe. His hood was thrown back and he had dark, curly black hair that contrasted amazingly with his pale face. He had light hazel eyes that somehow saw through the old man and yet saw him exactly.

He stepped forward to the bed and held forth the scythe. He paused, holding the weapon poised slightly over the man and swung through. There was no pain, and the arthritic sir passed away.

There was a bright flash and his feet pierced the skin. He grasped the slippery covering and pulled at it. He dug his fingernails in and tore. He winced as light cut into him. He poised outside the chrysalis and jumped. He opened wide and flew off.