The Butterfly Effect
by Rebecca Rosen
It was no ordinary butterfly, for it only had one wing. I sat and
watched in amazement as it sliced the dark air with such precision. It was strong and graceful. I wondered if my mother was like that, and
wished I could be that way as well. I walked closer and closer to the
butterfly. I was drawn nearer and nearer by her sweet song of seduction, love
and warmth. I wanted to embrace the butterfly, hold it and protect it. I began to panic. I wanted it now more than anything in the
entire world, that butterfly. I jumped
to grab it but every time I tried, she glided higher. I knew I should not catch
it, it was cruel and unnatural. However, I went against my better judgment and
leaped. I leaped into the air, as hard as I could, and I caught her. I caught
that beautiful butterfly. I had everything I ever wanted in the palm of my
hands at that very moment. My feet hit the ground and I opened my hands. That
last butterfly was crushed, its blood spilling all over, seeping through my
fingers. That butterfly was the last one, and now she is gone. Along with everything else.
Part One- The Beginning
I wake up in a frenzy. My sheets are drenched in sweat and my body is
quivering from head to toe. I turn over to see that my quilt had fallen off of
me in my sleep. The dream is a recurring one; I have had it almost every night
since I turned nine years old. It is always the same, easy and unchanging. I do
not understand why it kills me so much to experience it anymore. I don’t understand why it bothers me so much,
the butterfly. It’s just a butterfly, nothing more. It has been happening for
almost seven years now, ever since I found out that my real parents had
died.
It doesn’t bother me, living without my real parents because I’ve never
met them. My replacement parents, or “guards” as the government has come to
call them, are not parents. They are fake parents to be quite curt. They
welcomed me every day that I came home from school, “Welcome Beata” they’d say
in monotone. “Guards” are sent to every child who is without a mother or
father. They are assigned the job of guarding a child without a parent. They
get paid for it, courtesy of the Pareo government. Every orphaned child is
provided with two, both distant, and continuously unchanging “guards.” They
look like real parents in the sense that they have flesh, eyes, real hair. They
walk like any normal human would; they speak, give hugs, wish me goodnight.
They carry me my dinner every single night, and clean my room for me.
But I cannot be fooled, I was never that
naïve.
I have never experienced real
love once in my life. These “guards,”
issued to me by the government, are paid to care about me; it is not sincere to
the slightest degree, yet it is the closest that I have ever come to sincerity
in all my sixteen years of living.
For years I was asked the same questions. “Beata, how was your day?” and
“Beata do you enjoy your friends?” up until I was about thirteen year of age.
By the time I was fourteen, the questions became more intricate; “Beata, do you
engage in inappropriate after school activities?” “No” I would always answer.
Since these were government-paid working individuals, every word I would
mention in front of them was mentally recorded. It was stored in their
permanent record, which is held in the capital building in Town Square. Not only does one’s
permanent record contain every good or bad deed that person has ever committed,
but it also contains every bit of genetic information that the government can
obtain about that person.
Genetics are precious to the government of Pareo. These genes are what
determine the path of life that the government chooses for you and what truly
sets you apart from every one else. The elite, or the “Formosas,” have
genetics like pure gold. They all obtain
the Formosa
gene, which ultimately makes them rich, happy, and beautiful people. My
“guards” tell me not to worry, that they are sure that I have great genes, but
who can be positive? It is just the government encouraging me not to give up
hope, that they have something interesting in store for me, I am sure.
I have been an outsider for most of my
life, never seeming to fit in with the rest of the crowd. The other children in
my year used to tease me. “You don’t have a mommy!” they would say. It didn’t
bother me though; I knew one-day mommy would come to find me, or so I hoped.
I used to write
letters to her, my mother, in times of need. They were addressed to “Beata
Cavelry’s Mommy” in my pathetic pre-kindergartener handwriting. Aldabert encouraged me to write them, always
having a positive attitude about my situation. To him, there is always greener
grass on the other side of the fence. No matter the situation he is in, he
always believes that it could be worse and that we are all lucky to be where we
are in our lives. Of course, he does not know what it is like not to have true
parents.
“Why don’t I have a mommy or daddy?” Oh, the guards just love to answer
that one. The government has not quite fixed every kink in the “guard” system
yet. Since the “’guards” are not real people to the slightest degree, they
cannot feel emotionally, and cannot sense the emotional environment surrounding
them at any given moment. The Pareo government deemed it fit that at such an
emotional time as finding out that these people are indeed not your real
parents, to make the answer as simple and quick as possible. “Your mommies and daddies left you because
they knew we could take better care of you.”
“Why is it better?” Silence. Nothing but silence. Every single time. The
truth, as simple and quick as it can possible be delivered. It kills though,
finding out that these people who have been raising you almost your entire life
are indeed just what the government has named them; “guards.” All they are
doing is guarding you from the world outside that can be almost as harsh as finding
out the truth about your life.
The tears come
later, at about the age of nine or ten, when the children realize exactly why
their parents left them there: to deal with their own battles. There are some
rare cases in which the original parents left their children because they knew
that it would be better for the child, but more often than not, it is for other
reasons. Scandalous ones I presume, like
having a child at a very young age or without the permission of the other
spouse’s parents. Or maybe, I hate even to bring this one up, mixing genes with
someone else. A child born by mixing genes is regarded with contempt. A “tainted” child, is what the Pareo
government calls them. A parent that gives life to one of these tainted
children can be sent to jail, and in some cases even sentenced to death. It is
considered a heinous crime here in Pareo.
Leading the life of a tainted child means leading a life of rejection,
sadness, and sometimes even death. But if no one asks, then it is not your duty
to tell. You and you alone know if you are of mixed gene pools, and I suggest
that it remains that way.
Aldabert tells me
stories about the “tainted ones.” Most of these people tend to disappear by the
time they reach the age of sixteen, the age of sorting. The tainted ones don’t
just come out and show the world that their gene pools are mixed, though. It
runs as sort of a “don’t ask don’t tell” policy. No one asks you if you are
tainted, and you don’t tell anyone, not even your closest friends. According to
Aldabert, there is a secret underground society which watches the children
their entire lives, and when the time comes, they murder them. A few months
before their sorting. Simply killing the children would just be too easy,
though. They extinguish the children by having their tainted genes cleansed
from their system. They eject the genes from every solitary cell in the body,
one by one. This process could take weeks, maybe even months, according to what
Aldabert tells me. Weeks without food,
water, or sanity. It is terrible to even think about, that this could be
happening behind closed doors here, in this very country. Many people do not
believe the rumors, but I do. I have this feeling; it is very hard to explain
though. It is like, every time I hear something wonderful has happened, I know
something terrible must have had to happen first.
Today, it is
Sunday, the only day of the week that we have off from school. I tell the
guards that I am leaving to study with a friend for our final exam which will
take place in a few days.
I leave the
house with my exam review book and give my mother guard a wave goodbye. I hear
barking from the room next door and the pounding of Bessie’s graceful feet on
the ground. She sits in front of me in her perfect position, two paws held
tightly together on the ground, which she knows I love. Her deep eyes look up
at me and she tilts her golden head to the side.
“Fine” I say and
pat the side of my leg. She stands on all fours, immediately ready for today’s
adventure.
“I’m taking
Bessie!” I shout into the house and I leave without the slightest trace of a
care.
I walk down the street towards Town Square, Bessie
trudging behind me, her golden coat shining in the brilliant sun. I look for the faintest glimmer of blonde
hair, and finally, I see him. Bessie barks and runs over to him, licking his
hands all over and jumping on him to get his attention. He’s sitting by the
grand fountain, waiting for me as usual. Thank goodness. I sometimes fear that
one Sunday I will arrive and he will not be here. God only knows what I would
do without him. We have met at the grand fountain every single Sunday since we
were old enough to find our way around town. This is our meeting spot, but we
tend to separate ourselves from the rest of the children in the Town Square, like
it is just the two of us, and Bessie of course. In my mind, it has always been
just us two. The moment my eyes meet his, my spirits are lifted. Finally, I am
home.
“Hey girl!” Aldabert says as he roughly
pets Bessie’s head. “Beata, prompt, as
usual,” he says to me through his pearly white-toothed grin.
“Well, do you expect any less from someone
as Fabulous as me, Sir Aldabert Finden?” I retort, a sneer on my face.
He stands and gives me one of his usual
bear hugs. I breathe in deeply and smell that evergreen-woodsy-outdoorsy smell
that I have come to love so much over our years spent together. We enjoy each
other’s company so much and have learned to really treasure it now, since our schedules
are very different. Aldabert is quite the genius. Ever since we were very young, Aldabert has
excelled in science, mathematics, literature…
It seems that he is amazing at everything he does.
Aldabert’s father, Dominus Finden, is the
headmaster of Doceo Eruditus, otherwise known as the “smart people school.”
Dominus is one of the smartest gentleman the country of Pareo has ever
known. He is world renowned for his
accomplishments, and for the honor he has brought our country. At the young age
of twenty, he figured out a way to stop global warming and created a machine
that completely prevents it. He is an inspirational man for whom I have a great
amount of respect. However, Aldabert refuses to even mention his name in a
conversation. Since we started elementary school together, Aldabert has always
been known as “Dominus Finden’s son,” and has been held up to an enormously
high standard ever since. It is as though every teacher Aldabert has is waiting
for him to some day wake up and think of something amazing and intuitive.
Aldabert tells me about all the pressure he feels from home to excel in all of
his subjects. Aldabert’s father is never at home since Aldabert is at school
all the time, so he spends most of his time with his mother anyway. I assume
that they enjoy each other’s company, and who could blame him. Ever since I can
remember, she has cooked me meals when I was sick, come over to give me
medicine, and sometimes stopped by just to make sure that I was all right.
Whenever we saw one another she would greet me with her loving motherly smile
and the best hug that anyone could ask for. She couldn’t be any more different
from her husband. On the rare occasions when I have actually had the
opportunity to sit down in Dominus’ presence, he has remained cold and distant.
When talking to him, it is as though he is not at all interested in what I have
to say; he moves on to more pressing topics in his agenda as quickly as
possible.
To Be Continued....
