The Butterfly Effect

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....