“Don’t Lost the Butterflies” is a fictional short story about Dahl, a loving, kind, and naive creation of the maniacally brilliant Good Doctor, whose life is changed forever when she realizes unconditional love can be lethal.
Story:
Her heart was bleeding on the floor again. Purple and swollen, she kept her eyes glued, trying to find a pulse. In a few seconds she’d know if she was going to live or die. She didn’t know which she wanted more.
Painfully, it throbbed once, as if to say, “Don’t worry, I’m still here.” She waited a few more seconds. It throbbed once more. This time it said, “I’m coming back, don’t worry, I’ll make it.”
Sighing, she tenderly scooped up the lump of graying tissue. It had stopped bleeding. Creatures like her don’t have much blood. She blew and brushed off any dust that may have adhered to its surface, checking for any further damage. It looked the same as it had the last time it was torn from her chest; perhaps the muscle was getting stronger.
Threading a large needle with thick black thread, she began stitching her heart back in place. She plunged the needle into her bluing skin, slowly and methodically. She barely felt it anymore. She kept her eyes fastened to the thick black X’s, losing count at 50. By the time all the stitches were in place, the wound was clean and her heart beat on, stronger but no less painful. Each throb sent an aching, pulsing reminder that she had survived again.
Minutes passed as she sat staring at the dark wine-colored spot on the oaken floor, feeling the steady thump-thump that hadn’t been there moments before. She wondered how long she could’ve lasted without her heart. It had only ever been removed for a few minutes; she had never been without it for long.
He came into the room.
“I was going to help you, Little Doll,” he said. Standing in the doorway with cotton swabs and antiseptic, he resembled a child eager to play doctor with his favorite Teddy. Only he was no child. She looked up at him, the vision slightly skewed by the long streaks of greasy brown hair covering her large black eyes. Standing at well over 6 feet tall, with jet black hair streaked with gray and white, The Good Doctor towered over Dahl where she was still crouched on the wide-planked floor.
“That’s alright,” she said with downcast eyes and a faint smile, “all better.”
He walked across the room, looking around at everything in it. She watched as he examined every surface. Her eyes started at his knees, which were at eye level. His usual brown slacks were pleated perfectly, just the way he liked them. She had pressed them the day before. Traveling upwards, she could see something small but solid causing a slight bump in his left hand pocket. Subtly round, it had the shape of an imperfect ring. His white lab coat, starched and bleached to perfection, swayed slightly with The Good Doctor’s movements, covering the pocket. His large, smooth hands reached the edge of the coat, his graceful fingers brushing its hem. His nails, trimmed and tidy from the cleaning she had given them, had one almost imperceptible blemish in the form of a tiny purple drop, precariously sprinkled on the nail of his third finger.
Passing quickly over his arms and abdomen, her eyes lingered on his chest. With a familiarity which developed over the countless years they had been together since her creation, she knew the placement of every scar, the texture of every hair. She knew what it felt like to be pressed up against that solid, smooth chest, both in ecstasy and anguish. She could hear, even now, even at this distance, the steady beating his heart made against his muscular flesh.
A slight grumbling sound, like that of a motor trudging up a hill in the distance, made her eyes jump to his face. Her eyes traced his elegant, sturdy jaw line, chiseled and always clean-shaven, which she paid careful attention to each morning. His long, refined nose and neat, dark brows made the perfect frame for his luminous eyes. Those eyes, both haunting and endearing, occupied many of Dahl’s thoughts throughout the day. Gazing into the almost liquid brown pools made her feel as though she were drowning in a soft loch of warm water. They had an almost inhuman glow, which she knew could flash almost iridescent red when his mood elevated to a manic excitement.
She watched as his soft mouth jerked with each passing assessment of the space, curling his lip every now and then. She had only just gotten the dust off of the table tops when she had had to salvage her heart. The ugly burgundy spot was still scarring the old brown planks. Their eyes reached it at the same time.
“I meant to clean it up, I really did. I only just finished with…” she glanced down at her chest, “my sewing,” she said and scrambled over to the spot, falling over herself in order to scrub the blemish.
“It’s ok, Baby Doll,” he said, bending down and raising her chin with his large, rounded index finger, “don’t worry about it.” Lightly taking her hand in his and kissing the stitching on the backs of her hands and wrists, he looked up into her eyes. Giving her a gentle smile that didn’t reach his eyes, he said,
“I’ll help you.”
Once the spot was removed, Dahl went about her usual chores. Her top priority was to pack The Good Doctor’s things into his neat soft brown leather medical bag. He had a demonstration in town at the university. She hoped he would come home in good spirits. The community seemed enthralled with his research, considering it vital and intriguing, if not mildly grotesque. The town received much attention and publicity from The Good Doctor’s research, which mitigated any discomfort they may have had about his methods. They seemed to turn a blind eye to how he obtained his information and only dwelled upon his results. It was all an entertaining show to them, The Good Doctor’s work.
Dahl wondered how the enthralled public would be had they known that she was another “result” of The Good Doctor’s work. He would tell her that she must remain a secret, his secret, his prize, his treasure. He insisted the public would not yet understand or accept what she is. He feared they would want to study her and take her away; to “covet” her as their own, when he and she both knew that she belonged to him, NEVER to anyone else.
She cleaned the old manor top to bottom, hesitating only at the door to the basement laboratory. It was his office. He was away, so she didn’t have to worry about disturbing him. It always seemed she lost more than her heart every time she made the venture down the steep steps to the basement.
The oak door was heavy and old, but its hinges were never rusty. The ancient door didn’t squeal as she pushed the door inward. She stood at the top of the dark, cement stairs. She swept the top step with a sigh. The second and third steps were easily swept, as well. When she reached the fourth step on the descent, the light from the doorway faded. She couldn’t see the fifth step. There was an old bulb hanging down at the bottom of the flight. She couldn’t see it but she knew it was there. Taking a deep breath, she left the light of the fourth step and plunged into the dark below. She tried to stay calm, but the dark was suffocating. She had nine steps to go until the bulb’s chain would dangle in front of her hands. She knew that she couldn’t let her fear get the best of her. Her heart was still sore and had only just begun beating regularly again. She couldn’t afford to put any more strain on it now.
She slowly felt her way down the steps one at a time. By the seventh step, the new stitches on her chest began to pull. It would be ok, she would make it. She was being silly. There was no reason to be afraid. She moved with more force to the bottom of the stairs. Her determination moved her forward and before she knew it, she felt the little beaded chain in front of her. She reached her hand up and clicked the lab into light. Her heartbeat didn’t slow. The stairs hadn’t scared her; it was what was waiting at the bottom of the stairs that almost tore her heart from her chest again. It was the lab. The place where he made her.
The lab was always filled with nightmares. It’s what the Good Doctor studied. He studied anatomy and physiology. He studied the affects of fear on the body and mind. In order to test his theories, he had needed a test subject. Thus, Dahl was born. Others that were brought down here for experiments, vagrants and runaways, sometimes ended up worse for wear. Not all of them could be allowed to leave. From left over appendages, organs and string, the Good Doctor had constructed the perfect test dummy, which, on a good day, he called his “baby doll.” She could feel fear, terror, but couldn’t break as easily as others who were a bit more human. He also gained a housemaid, cook and companion for lonely nights.
Dahl bolstered her courage and set about cleaning the laboratory. She dusted jars and canisters of odd eyes, insects and petrified human and animal parts and tried not to see their contents. She refilled beakers and burners, all the while humming a faint song to herself. She had almost reached the backmost and least favorite part of the lab. In the rear corner was a large glass dome containing hundreds of butterflies and moths. They were provided with endless supplies of nectar and barely any places to perch. Thus they were always in a constant state of movement. The Good Doctor kept them like this for a reason. They kept Dahl alive.
Some years prior, the Good Doctor was in his lab amongst the countless spare parts from those whom were too weak to complete his trials. Open on the table was a nearly complete human rag doll. Her torso was open because her vital organs kept failing. The Good Doctor learned some time ago that in order to sustain a heartbeat, there has to be enough life in the body. Since he was creating an artificial life, he decided the life of this rag doll needed to come from someplace real first.
“Life from life,” he’d say. Looking down into her bloody, faintly blue innards, he tried once more to awaken the doll on the table.
Attaching the probes to her heart, stomach and groin, he sent a jolt through the body. Dahl took her first breath. She opened her eyes and saw the Good Doctor’s face. Being the only one she’d ever seen, she thought it beautiful.
“How do you feel?” He said, giving her his gentle smile.
“I feel…fluttering…here.” She pointed to her exposed middle before those eyes closed and she died on the table.
He could have placed a seed at her center, or a plant of some kind. Any kind of inanimate life force. But upon hearing her first words when she gazed upon his face, the Good Doctor decided to make it literal. He took countless butterflies and moths from his specimen jars and trapped them within her ribcage. He jolted her one more time before sewing her up. As he sewed, her chest rose and fell at a slow and steady pace.
Since then, he kept those poor insects trapped in a state of frenzy within the dome in the lab. Every so often, when Dahl was becoming sluggish, he would strap her to the table and replace the little dying lives with new ones. It always hurt when the dead were removed from her chest and the live ones were replaced only to suffer the same fate. She felt the cost of keeping her alive and satisfying the Good Doctor’s sense of humor was cruel and unfair to these beautiful winged creatures.
Standing outside the glass dome, she placed her hand to the glass. The butterflies and moths seemed to stall for a second. Not knowing what to do. Dahl stared at her bluish-purple fingers against the glass. They were the color of a fresh bruise. Between them she could see the butterflies suspended in midair a few inches back from the glass. They recoiled from her. They stood there immobile for the span of a breath. Dahl staring at them and them hanging back. Something in her stomach pulled, sending a sharp pain through her. She braced herself on the glass. The butterflies reacted to the jolt. Suddenly, they began their frenzied flying once more. It was no longer random. It was directed at the glass directly in front of her hand. Standing up straight, she watched as these little creatures began throwing themselves, full force, into the glass. Some fell to the bottom of the dome after impact. Many reared back for another hit, and another, and another.
Eventually, little spatters of blood appeared where the wings beat the glass hard enough. The little bodies seemed to be spurred on more. The attack became more violent as more and more exploded into the glass. Horrified, Dahl recoiled back from the glass. She lost her balance. When she was about to fall to the floor, she felt her back hit something hard, and hands under her arms.
She turned and saw the Good Doctor lifting her to her feet.
The gentle smile that never reached his eyes in place, he looked down at her. Her legs still splayed beneath her, she could only stare up at him, eyes wide with terror.
Why Baby Doll, it seems you’ve made some friends,” said the Good Doctor.
Before she could fight her fear-induced asphyxiation to utter any intelligible words, he lifted her from the floor and in one motion swung open the glass panel in front of her and threw her into the dome. Sitting on the floor of the brightly lit enclosure, she squinted up at the winged insects. As before, they stalled as if tasting something in the air. The insects inside her ribs began to flutter faster. The pang in her gut lurched her forward once more. It seemed everything inside of the dome took a breath. Then the cloud of swarming winged bodies charged her, this time, without the glass barrier.
The Good Doctor secured the door behind her and watched, grinning, as Dahl began to scream. The butterflies quickly flew into her, nipping and pinching her graying limbs. Moths quickly filled her mouth. It seemed to her that they were trying to get down her throat to their brothers within her chest. Sensing them, the wings inside of her beat faster and faster, looking for some kind of escape. Dahl spit out the insects she could, some managing to make it down into her body, becoming entwined in her organs and entrails. She stopped screaming and could only make small, strangled noises, forcing her lips to stay closed. She turned around to face the doorway and The Good Doctor. He was smiling at her, and this time, the smile did meet his eyes. They gleamed with the unnatural glow of an animal that has cornered its meal. She beat her hands against the glass, crushing some of the insects that were too focused on attacking her to get out of the way.
Concentrated, milky white tears streamed from her large eyes, splashing down her cheeks. She silently pleaded with him to open the door, set her free. His expression never changed.
Her throat strained with the effort to keep from screaming. Her breathing was ragged and felt harsh in her nostrils. Her lungs felt as though they’d explode. Glancing down at her hands, she noticed some of her bindings coming undone. Having found their entry blocked, the creatures were seeking other ways to free the butterflies inside. They began picking at the threads holding her together. Hundreds swarmed over her limbs tearing away at flesh and sutures alike. She heard seams tearing and the constant buzz buzzing of the wings. They were flying at her face, in her nose, her ears, her hair. She felt them crawling all over her, biting, biting her skin. Just when light was beginning to fade under the shadows of their wings and she felt for certain they would swallow her whole, she felt the glass door wrench open behind her.
She came spilling out of the dome, her back landing hard on the cold, hard stone slabs of the floor. Although free of the glass enclosure, the many legs still clung to her, the pinchers still dug into her body, the wings still blocking her eyes.
Although it seemed endless, within a few moments the buzzing muted to the low humming she had always heard, coming from inside of her, instead of without. She was breathing easier and was able to see the bright fluorescent lighting of the laboratory at last. When she looked down, she realized she was cradled in The Good Doctor’s arms on the floor. He was gently picking the remaining bugs off of her. The ones that were latched on tighter than the others, he yanked free and holding them between two of his massive fingers, crushed them and ground them to dust.
She gazed up at his face and felt her heart flutter the way it had when she’d first laid eyes on him. He had given her life and then saved her from certain death. She loved him more than she ever had. She was filled with appreciation for this brave man who faced those terrible winged beasts. Though he pushed her so hard before, his hands were now so gentle, his eyes so kind, his chest so warm against her back. He looked down at her and she saw nothing but love in his eyes.
“Are you alright, Baby Doll?” he asked, taking her face in his hand, wiping away the residue from her tears.
“Yes,” she said, still breathless, “I’m fine now.” She closed her eyes and nestled into the palm of his hand.
He gestured toward her legs and hands, “We need to get you fixed up, my love.”
Dahl followed his eyes and some of the damage the butterflies had caused. Along with the countless ripped seams, there were many wounds and gouges along areas of her body. Cloth had been eaten away only to allow the butterflies access to her skin to cause more pain and injury.
“Yes, I supposed we do,” she responded.
As The Good Doctor lifted her onto the table, Dahl realized the extent of her injuries. Although they had not bled much, there were deep gouges on any exposed surface. The wounds burrowed deep into the tissue and muscle of her arms and torso. Her left leg was almost completely severed from her body, only three small stitches kept it intact. The room spun and Dahl had to clutch The Good Doctor’s arm and press her face into his chest. She immediately felt better, taking in his warmth as well as his scent. She relaxed, reclining on the table. However, once her pulse slowed, immediately there was a problem. Her pulse was slowing too much. She felt her vision blur and her muscles get weak. The humming in her ears from the butterflies grew fainter. They were dying.
She gazed up into the Good Doctor’s face, the face of her creator. The one she had loved at first sight and every day since. She thought about his temper, his manic compulsions, his rage. She remembered times past when she was sure he would literally tear her limb from limb and never put her back together again. She thought of the times she’d wept, the blood she’d bled and the stitching. Always stitching. There wasn’t a time that she could remember that the Good Doctor had lost his temper and left every part of her intact.
None of that mattered now. Looking into his eyes, seeing the concern and determination there, she knew her love was uncompromising and unconditional. It didn’t matter what he did to her in his rage, he loved her, he created her, she literally could not live without him.
Dahl watched quietly as he grafted her skin and sewed her wounds up tight. There were more stitches than ever before, but it didn’t matter. She was whole again, thanks to him. She knew what needed to be done next. She needed butterflies. It was a painful process, opening her to the bone, breaking her ribcage open, removing the half-dead butterflies inside. In the early days of her creation, she used to beg the doctor to use something smaller so it wouldn’t hurt so much. She also felt bad for these beautiful little winged beings that were giving their lives so she could live. Every time she asked, however, The Good Doctor would smile and shake his head, insisting this was the only way. They had more power because they had consciousness and if he didn’t use them, then there was a chance she wouldn’t be with him much longer,
“It’s all over for us if we lose the butterflies,” he’d say.
He strapped her limbs to the table, wrenching her arms back to an unnatural angle. She wouldn’t cry out. She wouldn’t give the Good Doctor any more trouble today. Although the incision stung and her rib bones make a sickening crack as they split apart, she maintained her composure. When the procedure was finished, she lay on the table panting and in deeper pain than she’d felt since her creation.
“How are you feeling?” The Good Doctor asked.
“Alright,” she whispered, “I can feel the butterflies.” She smiled a small, faint smile before falling deeply asleep.
Dahl’s life continued, following her usual routine. Every so often, The Good Doctor was cruel and would savagely try and rip her apart; however she never needed as much repair as she had the day the doctor threw her into the dome. Whenever upset, his flashes of anger were shorter, like he knew how close she’d been to dying that day and would not let it happen again. In brief moments, he would lash out, cause injuries minor enough that she could repair herself, and then apologize immediately after. He was always so sorry that it broke Dahl’s heart to see him in so much pain.
Life was easier for Dahl. She was as content as she’d ever been, however, she could not shake this feeling in her gut. She kept reliving the moments in the dome. She felt the terror and anguish of the butterflies. No creature deserved to live that way. The butterflies inside of her must feel worse.
In a moment of courage, Dahl approached the steps leading to The Good Doctor’s laboratory.
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