Interrogations, Concerning A Bloody Beautiful Butterfly...

“I’m glad.” she said. Even in her weakened state, it wasn’t fair how benign she could look, just as a butterfly flies its ending loop, mind in awhirl, I solemnly stood watch over her body, a lone sentry, absolutely devoted to my princess, stained scarlet, with her own blood. She was even more heartbreakingly beautiful, even as she drew her last breaths; I knew, that had it been any other than I, her faithful servant, watching her, had it been anyone else, anyone the least bit sick and ungrateful, they would have ravaged my poor flowers’ body, defenselessness adding its own charm to her pale, bloodless skin.

“Hime”. What do you want me to do now?” I asked, my voice, weak and fragile,… my painful tears, freefell from a face that had shown no emotion in years, [determination, and loyalty excepted]. It was fine. I had reassured myself that it was fine, whenever she had left on her own, whenever she had said that she would patrol the western gates, (as a show of independence) I had said it would be fine. She’d never screamed. She’d sent me her position, through the link, and had let me find her. Lascar was still hovering over her. Stanley was attending her wounds. She shot me a look. One look. And I knew. She was dead. Or as good as dead. She beckoned to me.

“Rage. Rage is what you are,” she murmured softly, her eyes never leaving mine. “Rage is what you’ve been; Rage is what you will always be.”  Rage. I agreed with her. A small keening noise in the back of my throat shocked me. I was not angry, I was not rueful. I was mourning. I was mourning a princess, an idol whom had yet to die. Sick... Sickened is what I was, with every polluted breath I took, rich in health, hers were fading, gradually stopping, her fragile body, no longer possessing the amount necessary to sustain her body, and to keep her imbued with these chemical imbalances, her body, was starting to shut down. I was mourning. And she was dying.

Hello, Inspector. That brief flashback I’ve described to you, paraphrases the time I realized, that our beloved princess was a butterfly. A butterfly, that had dreamed of being a princess, and just as she escalated into climax…she was thwarted.

By whom you ask? By fate, of course. She hadn’t wavered, she hadn’t fought. She’d simply, looked at me once more, breathed a meaningful, “Adieu.”, and then,… she died. Her eyes, wide like the willow tree, filled with stars, only she could see. And I left her there. And as I turned back, I realized, I’d killed her. And that’s why we’re here today, Inspector. But to revert back, to her transformation, she positively, glowed, from the inside, and cast herself off, into a dream. A dream where a princess, was a butterfly, and that is how she, a victim, softly forced the gates of hell open, (took her potion,) and with a graceful, vengeance, admitted to herself that she was lying. But that did not stop her.

She became a butterfly. As her tears dried, in her eyes, still too unsure of herself to even cry, I cradled her beautiful, scarlet head, such a beautiful, porcelain doll. On her cheek, there was a mark, a single cut. Hope. It was the mark of a butterfly, in the throes of freedom, the mark that a butterfly makes on her chrysalis…

Fitting is it not? It wasn’t that, really, which left me with so much of an impression. Her transformation. It was not what really took my breath away. What really burned in my blood, and marked itself in me so deeply, my ashes will submit willingly to hell’s fires, still carrying that brand, was that as she, a princess, lay dying, and I, her murderer, watched over her, bleeding, (beautifully,) into hell, it was that, even as she took her last breaths’, she was pleasured. She was fulfilled, and pleasured with joy, agony, despair, all, nothing, anything, everything. Save for hope. She knew all was lost, yet she took my hand and whisper-screamed to me, “All is won.” And I, defenseless, against the onslaught of beautiful, mournful evocations (of morale) her voice inspired within me, felt my heart dream of insecurity, in lucid unwelcome backgrounds; I hovered gently between insanity and total well-being. [It was a wonderful feeling.] The insight, that I was not who I was, and that she was truly who she was meant to be, I shuddered.

My self, was filled once more with hateful, jealous, boundless [miserable] joy, exhilarated by her weakness, her surrender, everything taboo and illustrious about her, I was once again, glorious,… and humiliated. That such, power, held in her words and her rank, could submit to nothing more than the eloquence, the greed, and the strength I possessed, as nothing more than chance, you cannot own chance yet fate had decreed this! This raw onslaught that vibrated into rage was I, and I, was captivated, By this beautiful, sinless, monster, pulsing through me, this heat, this lust, inspired by her, with her, in her, because of her, it filled me to the core, and once again, I ravaged her. I plundered into her, hot and unworthy, and she, in cries of deceit, and gutlessness, forgave me.

How could she? How could she, Inspector? Words fail me, [at this moment,] I cannot describe, how holy I was, at that exact moment, at that exact occurrence.

But I digress;…It’s not really up to me now, is it? I, who in that fatal moment showed a glimmer of weakness, was dragged, by my pride, into a courtyard, and whipped by an angel. Or so, my friends would later tell me, in a drug-induced stupor, opium, if I’m to be exact, they ridiculed me for my obsession, but the light had raped me, and the darkness that had forever permeated every ounce of my being, and I, in a fit, of Rage, impregnated with narcissism, and depression, I later would presume it had been a fit of self-righteousness. Nothing malignant, or despondent about it, merely nonsensical, and hypothetical, down to the last demons’ eye.

And, if these recollection’s really are, the product, and seemingly, a side-effect of, hallucinogens, and standards, then who are you in society, too drunk on a dream, and unhealthful social orders, who are you to tell me, that I am the criminal? I murdered her that day, [yes,] I murdered my self as well, and according to myself, you can arrest me. You can finally detain me, and behead me, if need be, you see fit, or a decree commands it, but do not agree to sit here, and judge me, based on an emotionless report, and a stratagem that demands it. Although I confess, I myself have never once, forgotten the way I looked when I first slaughtered an innocent lamb.

Oh do not feign ignorance, it was in your eyes as well. Did you pull out a looking-glass, and analyze it? Did you see in your iris, some evil; some malignant thought, that had crossed your mind seeing the (beautiful) blood gush from her neck? [Paint it in red, sign it in red, chafe your soul red…]

Did you, so much like I, obtain so much pleasure from that little event, that it sparked your instincts, primal, and delicious, and you, hunched down with your limits, and your consciences, did you, Inspector, get down on your knees, and praise evil? Did you, lean forward, thinking of that animalistic grace that we lack and possess, so in tune, with ourselves, that we forget it’s there, until that freezing, vengeful moment when blood is spilt, and you, hungry as ever, reach out with your tongue, and taste it? Did that purity, when absorbed into your organ, (much like some cruel, endangered sponge,) suck out the (life of happiness) only joy you’ve ever known? Did you, with that beatific, scarlet, essence, on your tongue, did you lick your lips?

And sub-consciously leap for joy, because you, are an animal, not a refined gentleman, not an earl, (or a kind, chauvinist pig) of any sort, did you rejoice, as the hot, deadly, poisonous taste hit you? Did you forget, for what seemed like eons, just how delicious innocence is? I for one, Inspector, I for one, know that you did.

You ask me how I know this. You ask me just exactly, how could I, a murderer, (a doctor,) a lover of arts and sciences, a man so like yourself Inspector, how could I presume to tell you what you did, how you did it, and how you were capable of doing it, not in an alternate universe, but rather as a man, in this one. How you in all ways, and oh so beautifully put, and bluntly asked, and skillfully rendered and chaotically portrayed, in your imagination, in your mind’s eye, how you can see, this is the truth, and this is the lie, and you most definitely are not insane,(but I most definitely am,) and how shivering, you sense a maddening connection with me, disgust etched in the unforgiving lines of your cold, beautiful face, shock painted in your eyelids, the deep blue of your tranquility stained with my light violet imagery…provocative, isn’t it? Those are the effects of the drug known to mankind, Inspector, as logic.

Aren’t you tired Inspector? This tirade, this rant, is tiresome isn’t it? Quite effectively boring as well, the actor has no skill at all, it’s absolutely pointless to be here, because as we all know, the whole world in fact, knows, that we two have much bigger, and better things to be doing than having this wonderful, little chat, in your parlor, no less. If I myself were to write a treaty, to your happiness, and to my submissiveness, we would find a beauteous bridge mapped out ahead of us. You see, Inspector, what you don’t know, is that my words are the beams. Your confusion is the nails. My assertiveness is the map. Your insecurity is the termites. My willpower is the maggots. Your title, Inspector, is the foundation. Mine, Murderer, is the inlay. Everything else, my inspector, is a sieve. Pretend all you like, but there is and isn’t an exact meaning to our meeting.

I was bound to tell you. And you were bound to disappoint me, your reactions far too predictable and ostentatious. You take me very seriously Inspector, but I would advise you not to. Aside, from polite greetings, and obscure conversations, coupled with certain vagueness, you, my Inspector, are a man of thinking. A man of a meticulous, perfect, demeanor. And I, Inspector, am a man of inspiration. A man, of blood. These twists, and turns, better suit my ideology, my philosophy, because, believe it or not, Inspector, I too, have values. And things I wish to protect.

So, like a beautiful caged bird, must end it’s song with death, we draw to a conclusion, I myself having occupied every angle from which I could attack my self, finally disguise myself under the guise of my self, and do find, in time, you are a moralist, a terrorist. I am a specialist, an egoist;…a romanticist.

I admit, I really do, often, forget where I am, and who I am, and why I am, but let me tell you this, Inspector, if you really must brand me a sinner, then let me harmlessly brand you a beetle.

I know this isn’t the time to debate fate, we’ve tempted subservience enough for one evening, enough as it is, adequate as it appears to be, I need to be getting on back to my cell.

But, as misleading as the truth can be: lies always lead back to the truth (and same-senescent as it must be,) truth establishes nothing but lies.

Rest well, Inspector, and although it didn't feel like this exact time was suitable to mention closure, escapism as well, there wouldn't happen to be a situation,( much like this exact occurrence,) happening anywhere elsewhere tonight, now would there?

Well, I’ll tell you, just between us.

There is.

Oh, what a grand shocking thing it is to be right, isn’t it Inspector?

I know, because I, Inspector, I, am not really here.

Goodnight, Inspector. This is the very last time we shall meet.

Why, you ask? Because, my dear Inspector, you are dead.