The Hidden Ones (Part 2.)

Mom always said that she loved looking out her crystal window. She admired the clear blue sky that twinkled softly against the ivory reflection that gave her a calm sense of tranquility. And no doubt would she leave out the presence of the gracious purple-lined butterfly.

She had always told me about her isolated afternoons alone. How she would sit unaccompanied at our warm painted wooden table, and do nothing but listen to the faint symphony of sounds around her while staring amidst into the open window.

I had thought this practice was strange and maybe even delirious, but the opening grimace of concealed joy always flashed effortlessly across her face, so I hypothesized that her ritual was only for pure entertainment.

Mom would also always mention the anomalous single butterfly that would ardently visit her. She explained that the peculiar creature would sometimes stop beautifully on one of our flower pots or bat it’s delicate wings constantly next to our glass window. Consistently reminding me of the butterfly’s odd character, mom would claim that the mere animal’s persistent behavior would make her think it was trying to send her a message or tell her something.

But only a twelve year old, even that implication of telekinesis or the order of speech with an animal was foreign to me.

So it was that one day after school, my backpack still heavy around my shoulders, that I would ask mom why she had conjured up these unusual perceptions.

Standing soundlessly in the kitchen, I modestly observed my compassionate mother and studied her mellow nature.

The sun tenderly gleaming through the window, she dreamily peered out into the open world -- strands of her smooth brown hair gracefully sliding out of her bun.

When she had finally turned her head and saw me waiting, she welcomed me home and we talked together for a short moment before she returned back to her alluring dimension outside the window.

Trying to hear the muted reticent orchestra my mother spoke happily about, sparks of wonder slowly sang through my body as I noted every line of movement my mom made.

So piecing together an undetermined audacity and courage, wonder ignited through the song of my voice. The words came out hushed -- nothing less than a breath of air. Mom, why are you like this now?

There was a deafening moment of stillness. I thought I could hear the faraway flaps of a soaring bird.

Then, steadily my mother faced me with her deep brown eyes. She beamed faintly and then spoke in her mild and tender-hearted tone.

She told of how on a bitter and cold day she felt that something had been taken away from her -- something so subtle but of great value. This something, she stopped for a few seconds, was a part in her life that she could never live without.

There was always a burning pain that tore at her heart she explained, a mix between harsh logic, bewildering sadness, and enchanting confusion.

So to soothe the unceasing sorrow that constantly enshrouded her mind, she would gaze out the window trying to find what she had lost long ago.

Contemplating on the earth’s creations and majestic creatures, she hoped that staring out the window would inspire her to remember what was stolen from her.

My mom paused, as tears glossed her eyes and danced off her eyelids -- dewdrops racing down her face.

I stood frozen, my mouth slightly agape as thoughts tumbled in my mind.

As a young child, a pure innocent being only newly introduced to the world… seeing my mom cry, feeling the agony she described bubble in my chest, and being strained by confusion of the unknown.

                                                                        ………….even I knew what that meant

                                                                 ~~

Winds of spring hummed through the air, passed through the open window, and fluttered against my face as I imagined a world outside the classroom.

I stared back at our female teacher, and rested my chin on top of my right fist.

Today we were learning about the Dream World -- the threatening obscured land on the other side. Rumors told that you could only arrive in the Dream World if you obliterated reality from your mind and fall into the blurred dimension of dreams.

Although I did understand the urgency of this extraordinary situation, I just didn’t comprehend why we had to read a whole textbook about the cautionary steps of avoiding the Dream World.

I ran the tip of my fingers on the smooth glazed paper of the textbook, skimming through the section about how to never visit the old realm tree that could pull you into the other dimension.

Someone threw a crunched piece of paper behind my head.

I momentarily leaped away from the pages of the broad book and reached down to pick up the rolled ball of paper that flew across the room to hit me.

My eyes ran to the back of the room… and I found the boys laughing, the girls gossiping, the teacher oblivious from what had occurred.

The heart in my chest flittered slowly, it’s tangled roots twisting into a demented mess of futile emotions.

Ever since I had been imprisoned in school, I had been the prey of this vicious world.

I never felt immersed in in this unconventional realm -- the spirits always seeming to tail me away from their world. And of course, I never fitted in like any of the other average kids that surrounded me.

They would always make fun of the hair. The long slick lines of hair that coursed my fine scalp, not one strand of hair imperfect or entwined in a curl. My threads of silky hair bled of a shadowy black, darker than the starless skies of a indistinct night or the nothingness of a non-existing universe.

This would only contrast to my white dewy skin that decorated a colorless shade. My face was the pigment of soft falling snow that delicately shattered to the ground, or even the shining stain of a piece of chalk that my teacher would paint with on the board.

I was like the definition of the impossible. Having two sentiments of color rushing between the worlds of light and dark was like accumulating opposite worlds that would never settle on their serene fate.

My hand choked the packaged globe of paper as my teeth collided against each other.

I studied the view outside the window -- my observance focusing on a tiny yellow dot that streamed on the far side of the world. I felt as if I could see the old ream tree’s leaves flying to the ground.

Right then I knew for certain that despite what people said and thought of me… despite the flaming rage that I had for this hideous world

                                                                                  ...……... that I would visit the tree.

After school when I arrived at home that evening, mom informed me that she was taking me to a doctor’s appointment.

Something about being worried about my irregularly measured height, my pale faded aurora, and my thin svelte composure.

Even though I did genuinely have a warm intimacy with my mother, at times, I could only descry her as one of the weak favored shadows that drowned this world.

She couldn’t see my sole and lone character, my unique persona, or even my fascinating perspective on things. She couldn’t see that I was a perilous thorn amongst a bed of fragile flowers. She didn’t even know that I wasn’t from this…

But regardless of my inner whispered nature, we would still appear at the doctor’s office.

Where we would hear the same recited counsel from the callous doctor, where my mom would sympathetically nod her head at every word she heard, and where I would wander along the bleak office with my eyes -- enjoying the white space that seemed to melody with my skin… until I was too tired to think and I would fall into a deep sleep.

                                                               ~~

The morning after the doctor’s appointment, I readied myself to go to school.

So just as I was about to step out the doorstep, I would glance at my mom sitting at our table as she searched outside the window.

Her eyes still pinned on the window, she would mumble a soft have a nice day at school before my shoes would reach the outside concrete.

I could only suffocate on the hypnotizing words slightly, for my own corrupt heart had lied to my own mother. For I would live out my promise to myself to visit the forbidden old realm tree thriving on the far shore of the land.

So with crumpled change resting in the darkness of my pockets, I took advantage of the advanced train systems that reinforced the transfer structure in this world.

For every solid coin or any worth of money, I could only apprehend the rigorous and tiring journey in my exchange.

The money, these simple based elements crushed and mended for thousands of years, could voyage around the world through an invisible interchange system of synthetic machinery. A hidden trade work that could carry me anywhere I craved.

So after a effortless and mute ride on the transport system, I eventually stopped at the far shore of the world.

The melting sun painted it’s polychromatic rays across the sky, declaring the imminent appearance of noon as the aged realm tree stood powerful and constructed in the middle of the field.

Treading past germinating beams of grass, I steadily made my way up to the stunning plant.

Amber leaves from the blossoming tree faintly whirled down from it’s velvety branches and settled in peaceful melancholy on the nature ground.

I could only watch in awe as bundles of leaves slid off the seizing branches that seem to cry out in poignant mercy for their astray attendance.

It was strange, for I felt as if there was a subdued reminiscing of belonging when I saw the tree. Something about it’s embracing illumination, crestfallen portrait, and the way the leaves from the tree would carry their heartaches down, ever so gently, like snapshots freezing in fleeting increments.

But as the realm tree covered me in it’s hospitable environment, an instant glimmer caught my eye.

I rotated myself to see an image of a intricate striped butterfly flying amidst the open field -- it’s soaring wings opening vaguely. My eyes adjusted on the airborne figure, and I noticed it’s distinguished purple lining that crested beautifully down it’s underside.

I paused for a second, my mind conducting and releasing ideas and philosophies. Was this the purple butterfly that mom always talked about?

I shook my head reasonably. No it couldn’t have been, the butterfly would have to travel hours to get here.

Seeming to read my thoughts, the aigle purple-lined butterfly spun fluently in a revolved circle, and landed gracefully on my pointed finger.

The world and this whole plan seem to ultimately make sense as I desperately revolved myself around the entire sketch of reality and dreams.

I examined the murmured traces between the twirling leaves and the beats of the rippling butterfly.

My heart roamed back to the memories of the threatening night and the undetectable exchange between two worlds.

I shot my vision at the butterfly resting on the tip of my finger…

                                                            …………….Was it trying to tell me something?