• SCARLET

    Rachel had less than three hours to turn in a rough-copy of her thesis paper to her Ethics class. Her paper was adequate in its rough form, though Rachel’s obstinate insistence on perfection caused her heartbeat to accelerate, and her blood to boil. Rachel was stressed. She clip-clopped in ill-fitting high-heels towards the campus library. Through extensive usage, Rachel had discovered the library’s purpose as a wealth of resources, and not just the resources of books and computers.

    “Scarlet, I need your opinion,” she said in a heavy breath shortly after she burst through the doors and turned a corner to find him sitting at a table.

    He had his nose buried deep within the pages of a psychology book. A pair of reading glasses rested loosely off his feminine nose and high-cheekbones. Scarlet’s name was like his hair, a deep auburn color that shined when the light hit it. He saw Rachel coming around to meet him and the curves of his lips raised over his pearly-white teeth in an amused grin. Scarlet removed his glasses and lowered the book, “Cannibalism through the Ages”. He placed a bookmark with an image of a butterfly with blood-red wings imprinted on its surface.

    “As per expected, Rachel,” Scarlet said. He lowered his book and his glasses in a solitary action.

    Rachel sat next to him. She swung her purse around to face them and produced a set of heavy papers. Rachel shoved them beneath Scarlet’s nose. She brushed an ebony curl of hair out of her freckled face and waited for Scarlet to read. He brought his glasses back to his face and shuffled through the papers. He finished swiftly, and silently, and then he handed the essay back to Rachel.

    “Cute premise, sound sentence structure, though I’m not sure many will agree with the content,” he said.

    “How do you mean?”

    “Well, your paper claims that predators are the perfect specie.”

    “Of course,” Rachel said, “They eliminate the weaker links that would otherwise breed and create more faulty species with their flawed genetic code. Predators work with natural selection for the protection of the strong and perfect.”

    “You’re summarizing your paper, I read your paper, Rachel,” Scarlet said, “You argued your point well, I’m just analyzing the content. Many will disagree with what you have to say, and you should be prepared to counter their argument. For example, how does the eradicated specie feel towards its predators?”

    Rachel blinked; the meaning was lost on her. Scarlet gave a mechanical chuckle. Rachel gave him a blank stare.

    “The prey doesn’t see the predator as an example of evolution’s fine skills, Rachel,” Scarlet said, “But as a monster, threatening it. The monster might view itself as being a higher being, but it is still a monster.”

    “But if it were a monster it would not be perfect,” Rachel argued, “It’s not doing anything besides what nature has dictated, by wiping out the weaker species.”

    “Perhaps it’s easiest for mankind to say that when mankind is currently the dominant specie. I wonder how the world will react when something better comes along? Will we still hold onto our belief in natural selection and survival of the fittest, or will we fight for survival?”
    Rachel fell quiet. She nervously scratched at the top of her head. Scarlet removed his glasses and watched her, like a cat watching a mouse. He smiled and patted her knee reassuringly.

    “It’s a sound paper that will earn the grade you need.”

    “But it’s not perfect…” Rachel trailed off.

    Scarlet shrugged. He stood and wrapped a maroon scarf around his neck, then patted her shoulder with the gentleness of a father. She looked at him. He gave her a Cheshire-cat grin.

    “Perfection is not always necessary, ciao!”

    He waved at her, before tucking his book beneath his arm and walking out the library whistling. Rachel watched him walk out the door; she imagined him stepping onto a landmine and exploding into several tiny, opinionated fragments.

    She spent the next three hours reading and rereading, analyzing, studying, editing, and perfecting her paper. Even then, she agonized over it as she handed the stapled copy to her professor, who took it and smirked in amusement at her stress.

    “This is only your rough draft, I just want to look over it and make sure you’re on the right track, don’t get so frazzled. Relax,” he said.

    “I haven’t been relaxed since I was eight!” Rachel shrieked, as she fled the classroom; she was determined that day to have at least another hour or two studying for a quiz that would not take place until Thursday the following week.

    Later that day, in the ladies restroom on the campus, Rachel had an anxiety attack. The attack was perfectly-executed; it came quick and unexpected. Her breathing cut short, like a heavy hand upon her lungs. Her face went red. Her eyes watered. She would have coughed, or gagged if she could. Mere seconds drifted on into tiny eternities.

    “Calm down, Rachel, calm down, calm down,” her mind ordered, like the voice of a mother scolding a child, “Focus, focus, focus.”

    A few deep breaths, and some agonizing moments later, and she was fine. Rachel staggered to her feet, splashed some water on her face, and stared at her reflection in the mirror. She pouted; her hair was out of place. Rachel began using the water as a make-shift mousse, and curled pieces of her hair behind her ears.

    “There, nothing too terrible happened,” she said in a quivering whisper.

    She checked every aspect of her appearance, waited long enough for her cheeks to return to a normal color, and left the bathroom. Any sign of a flaw had to be erased before she emerged. Her exterior had to be flawless as the essays she wrote.

    Control and determination, those were the values ingrained into her by the words of her late-mother, a successful chairwoman who commanded an incredible amount of respect. Rachel’s mother had been quite clever. She’d known how to inflict a slap where none could detect, and had known just how hard to hit, so the maximum amount of pain could be caused without bruising the skin. A high-heel had accidentally crushed Rachel’s toes during her childhood; Rachel had made a B plus on a test when anything less than an A was unacceptable. Rachel had never worn a frilly dress, but business-style suits like her mother, or formal skirts. Blemishes were taught to be covered up, and playtime was forbidden so as to prevent scrapes and bruises.

    ***

    Rachel had not realized that several hours had passes as she agonized over her paper, till a librarian kindly tapped her shoulder, and informed her that the library was closing. Rachel let out a small gasp, scuffled around for her papers and books, and thanked the librarian. She raced quickly through the twin glass doors towards her car, which was parked a good distance away from the library. Her mother had always parked far away from her destination, for parking too close exhibited a sign of laziness.

    The sun had long since set, and blackness ruled the sky. Rachel allowed herself a brief moment to look at the sky, and commented on the lack of stars. None showed this evening, as if someone had taken a black paintbrush to the horizon and blotted them out. A chilly, autumn wind blew behind Rachel, causing her to shiver. She pulled her jacket tighter. She checked her reflection in the rearview mirror, before opening the door and climbing into the crimson, ’97 Honda.

    Somewhere during Rachel’s long drive back to her apartment, a red butterfly had gotten caught in the windshield wipers. She poked out her bottom lip in a pout, as she watched it struggle, trying to pry free. She dared not turn on her windshield wipers and releasing the poor creature, for fear of squashing it. The scarlet-winged butterfly continued to beat its large wings, writhing about beneath the heavy push of the windshield wipers.
    “Poor thing,” she said.

    Rachel saw a street lamp appear into view. Beneath its flickering glow would be a somewhat safe place to pull over and assist the butterfly trapped beneath her windshield wipers. She came to a stop directly beneath the flicker of the street lamp. The hum of the car’s engine died as she removed the keys from the ignition and tucked them within her purse. She climbed out the car, and immediately set her hands to gently prying her windshield wiper off the wing of the butterfly. With little effort, the butterfly came free, and though it rocked slightly in its flight pattern, the butterfly flew as if nothing had stopped it in its course. Rachel smiled and climbed back into her car. She rummaged through her purse for a few seconds, before inserting her key into the ignition.

    One crank, two cranks, and three: nothing happened. The vehicle did not hum, nor did it rumble. Rachel turned the key in the ignition again. Again there was nothing. Rachel squinted.

    “Don’t tell me my battery’s dead,” she groaned. Rachel looked out her window with a pouty look on her face.

    Located in the back of an alley, in the direction the butterfly had fluttered, was a blue, neon sign, like a shop of some sorts. Rachel bit her lower lip. She immediately regretted rebelling against her mother’s wishes, something she seldom did, about purchasing a cell-phone. She’d made the decision a few weeks prior to her mother’s death, and Rachel had nearly succeeded in escaping her mother’s iron will. Rachel had moved out the house, according to her mother’s suggestion, but had purposefully not purchased a cell-phone. As if to spite her, Rachel’s mother died in her sleep after an argument between the two; she’d shown no sign of any illness, or heart failure, it was as if she’d chosen to die. Now, Rachel regretted not having that cell-phone; she’d have to travel to the back of that alley to make a simple phone call for a tow.

    Reluctantly, she climbed out her car. She noticed the butterfly had perched itself on a fire escape on the outskirts of the alley, like the grim reaper, beckoning with its wings for her to join the dance of the dead. Rachel looked away from the butterfly towards the sign. The neon sign, in glowing blue letters read: “Butterfly Dead.”

    “Odd name for a store,” she commented, while approaching it.

    The buildings on either side overshadowed her. She felt encroached upon, like they were about to spring upon her in a sudden death trap. Their shadows loomed behind her, over her, and before her. They were ubiquitous, vigilant in surrounding her. She chided herself for the cowardly feelings that made the flesh on her arms prickle with apprehension.
    As she neared the shop, she could make out a face behind the dirtied glass window, adjacent to the door. She let out a small relieved gasp. It was Scarlet. Rachel grinned. Her nervous feelings were abated. She raced forwards and threw open the door.

    “Scarlet, I-…” she began, but stopped herself.

    The floor, black-and-white checkered linoleum tile, was caked in layer upon layer of dust. Thousands of butterflies were nailed, like wallpaper, to the four walls of the small shop, each of a different color and size. In the back of the shop were several shelves with large twelve-inch high jars that were roughly six inches in diameter, which were filled with a green sort of liquid that was commonly used for preserving pickled chicken feet. There seemed to be several small, peach-colored items floating around inside the jars, but from the distance Rachel couldn’t make them out. Scarlet stood in front a dusty desk in the center of the room. An antiquated, country-style cash register rested beside his left elbow, while an IV was connected by a tube to his right arm.

    “I’m glad you made it, Rachel,” Scarlet said. He gritted his teeth and removed the IV from his arm. Rachel noticed that the IV had filled up with a small amount of blood; it was drawing blood from him.

    “You knew I was coming?” Rachel asked, taking a cautious backwards step towards the door.

    “Of course, I helped bring you here,” he said, reaching inside a pocket and drawing a small dagger from it. There was a fluttering noise, as a few of the butterflies on the wall came to life in a moment of terror at the sight of the blade. Scarlet rested the knife against his arm and made a quick slitting motion across his skin. Blood poured from the wound, and several drops splashed against the dust-covered linoleum floor. A crimson butterfly shot out of the puddle of blood, showering blood off its large wings as it rose into the air.
    Rachel’s jaw dropped. She watched the butterfly land gracefully into Scarlet’s open palm. The moment its gossamer wings touched his skin, the butterfly melted once more into a splash of blood that poured through his open fingers. Scarlet grinned.

    “H-how? Wh-what? What are-…” Rachel stammered.

    “Rachel, you wrote about creatures like me,” Scarlet said in a raspy, heavy voice, as he twirled his bloody knife around in his fingers, “Perfect specimens of a species, predators given the noble duty of eradicating the weak and furthering the isolation of the best of the specie’s genetic code, creating the perfect creature.”

    “I don’t understand.”

    “How can I be clearer? I am the predator…you are the prey.”

    Rachel gulped. She felt flushed, hot and red-faced. Her skin was on the verge of breaking out into heavy sweat. Scarlet was going to kill her.

    “Wait, you don’t have to kill me, I-I can be of service to you, of more than nourishment,” she said quickly in an attempt to save herself.

    “Interesting,” Scarlet said, in a deep, hollow voice.

    “To further your kind, you need the perfect DNA, and my family is strong, we can reproduce!”
    Rachel said in an excited voice.

    Scarlet bellowed. He threw back his head. His cherry hair flew around his face as he cackled. He held his hands to his stomach, while the dim, overhanging green light flickered, creating eerie shadows around his pronounced facial features. Scarlet ceased his rupture, and eyed Rachel hungrily.

    “Pitiful, pathetic creature you are, abused and ill-gotten,” he spat, “What makes you think I would need your flawed genetic code running through the veins of my offspring!”

    Suddenly, he lurched forwards and gave a great heave. Rachel was reminded of her earlier panic attack. He gagged repeatedly. Rachel felt bile rise in her own throat at the mere sound of that wretched, guttural noise. She watched him hurl and spew vomit from his mouth into his cupped hands. Rachel saw something small, like the size of a newborn infant, land into his hands. It was peach-colored, and had bumpy, raised veins all over its spongy body. The thing turned and looked at Rachel with its pink, translucent eyelids, and grinned, revealing rows of several sharp, pearly-white teeth.

    Rachel fainted.

    ***

    She awoke strapped by several thick leather straps to a small gurney; the sheets were drenched in blood from previous uses, and the wheels were rusted over. She broke out into a sweat as a wave of panic rushed over her. She imagined her mother laughing in triumph.

    “If you’d have listened, you wouldn’t be in this situation,” her mother would have said, “Mother knows what’s best. Mother always knows. Now you will suffer the consequences of your childishness.”

    Scarlet sat on a three-legged stool besides the gurney, brushing the tips of Rachel’s raven-hair in a fatherly fashion. Rachel strained against her bonds, and tried to turn her head away from him, so she couldn’t have to look at his pretty face, but the strap against her forehead prevented her from doing thus. Scarlet chuckled.

    “Why so glum? You should be honored, you’re furthering the creation of perfection,” he asked.

    “You’re a monster!” Rachel spat.

    Scarlet laughed, “I knew it! I knew your opinion would change if you were to become prey yourself. You are weak, you not only act like prey, but you think like prey. If you were strong you’d have figured a way to escape your bonds by now.”

    “Why do you need me?” she asked.

    “My children need to feed in order to mature, otherwise they will remain perpetually in their fetal state,” Scarlet explained, “I have many children, and they need more blood than I can give them. So I’ll just have to borrow yours, and really you shouldn’t mind too much. You live in a state of constant anxiety, learning nothing from what your mother taught you. Instead of using her knowledge, you grew fearful and timid, afraid of making the slightest error, and now you can finally relax.”

    Scarlet reached behind him, and pulled the tube from the IV bottle off the desk. The butterflies on the wall came to life once more, beating their wings, straining against their bonds against the nails. Their flap-flapping created the sound of a roaring waterfall, crashing against a thousand jagged rocks. Rachel shrieked, moaned, cried, and whimpered, but could not stop the precious blood from flowing out her veins and into the bottle. She shook the gurney in her struggles, while Scarlet watched in amusement. The creatures in the glass jars, Scarlet’s “children”, turned their black eyes on her, in interest. They began gnashing their dagger-like teeth, eager for their supper. Some of them beat against the glass jars while Rachel screamed, her voice drowned out by the flapping of butterfly wings.