As Seen On TV

The black, loose fitting night gown stretched down to the floor while a pair of wrinkled, shaking hands tightened a sash of mustard colored cloth. Paula Willows steps were more of an early morning shuffle as she skirted around the length of the bed to the other side. The soft curls of her white hair hung loosely on both shoulders and bounced with each of her steps. But while she arrived to her husband’s side, a low breath escaped her mouth.

Eyes white and round she stood like a shroud at the end of the plain, four post bed looking over the still form of her husband Damon Willows. The wrinkles on his brow looked scrunched up and angered like a constant scowl plastered upon his face. Each of the few gray hairs he had were upright and pointed in all directions while his thick, bushy eyebrows seemed to teeter on the edge of his heavy brow ridge. Even his chapped, pale lips seemed to be stretched up in a sneer of contempt for the new day.

Most mornings this was followed by Paula leaning down to wake her husband up. First she would cast aside the crisp, white linens in order to shake him awake. She always tried to get him moving early so he could get downstairs to take his morning medication along with his breakfast. But the ritual soon changed to him spitting out those carefully cooked scrambled eggs and swallowing the green and white pill among the cursing and snarls of hatred for her horrible cooking and incompetent behavior. In twenty years Paula had never been able to cook an edible breakfast for him.

Yet his yells and chosen words would soon fade into a low hum as Paula would struggle to fall to her aching knees and clean up the broken dish on the kitchen floor. How many had he broken this month? Five? Ten? She had a hard time keeping count. The thought of plastic plates always came around her mind, but they never looked as pretty as her porcelain, butterfly prints.

Paula had dearly loved butterflies. Ever since she was a little girl she would run out into the fields during the Spring to dance and twirl among them. Two or three would even fly close enough to land on her shoulder or on the top of her head. They were always so free.

But she was too old to do that anymore. These days she enjoyed collecting only porcelain versions of her winged friends. They sat quietly in her bedroom upon a top shelf, all in a row and shining various colors. Some days while Paula would nurse a freshly given bruise or split lip, she would spend practically all day staring at the miniature collection she had. In certain mornings the daylight would strike them at just the right pose and she could swear that they were alive. Fluttering around in front of her eyes, doing all sorts of loops and stopping to flap their tired wings on her nose.

But her intent staring wasn’t on her butterflies now. Her brown eyes were now focused on the unmoving form that lay in her bed. She had already tried to wake him repeatedly, but his face remained in that irate expression. There was no rise or fall of his chest underneath the blankets and the disturbing sound of his snores didn’t waft through the room like an out of control chainsaw anymore.

Yet, while Paula stared at Damon’s stiffened body, only a single tear welled up and rolled over her cheek. As it trickled down she glanced to the bedroom window to see a yellow and black butterfly fluttering around in the April morning light. Her one tear fell with barely a whisper on the hardwood floor with only silence to hear it.

THE END

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