A Metamorphosis
The sunlight scattered across the room in sliced diamonds, delicately challenging the heavy musk of sleep as I remained cocooned by the warmth of goose-feather. I would allow myself a precious few minutes before my mother nudged my shoulder, darling, time to get up for school, gently teasing me out of my slumber.
The sunrise, I had decided, was like a guiding light of infinite opportunity. Just as the sun leads the flowers, the delicate oscillations of light supersede the gloom of night. That morning, I saw a butterfly greet each flower, entrancing nature with its graceful glides as it travelled effortlessly around the garden. Oh, small butterfly, what marvellous places you must have seen. The butterfly flew by socially, before greeting the waking eyes of other residents in Exeter.
I got ready for the day, pinning my Head Girl badge proudly to my uniform just as my phone rang. I picked up on the first ring. You, me and the cocktail bar tonight, my friend Izzy proposed. As if I’d ever say no to a night out with you. I had so much to update her on, I realised, as I blended concealer into the hidden hickey on my neck, a trace of passion. Now I can see Mum.
Well, my girl, dad beamed, holding my school report in his hand. The perfect school leader – a lovely young woman with an effervescent personality, contributing far and wide to the school community. I smiled back. After fifteen long years in education, the world was my oyster. Pride swelled in my stomach as I settled into my croissant, jam and butter blanketing the crevices of pastry. University cities flitted through my mind — the prospect of new friends, learning, and exploring a new home excited me more and more as I packed up my bag and walked to the train station. I buried my nose into my scarf as the cold autumnal winds fluttered through my purple wings.
I flew onto the train to school, admiring the beauty of the burnt-orange leaves as they cascaded in a dance, twirling ever so gently around the tree. My antennae were alert as I glanced around, my curiosity of fellow commuters infiltrating my imagination. Truly, you never know where anyone is going. Maybe the man in the tweed suit was doing a presentation this morning but was planning a lunch with his partner afterwards to share his success, eyes abound with joy as they shared a bowl of calamari. Or the young girl, clinging to the cuffs of her well-worn sweater, maybe she was estranged, meeting her family for the first time, perhaps in a busy café with clattering cups and the hearty laughter of friends. But her happiness would be the loudest of all. Or my happiness would be loudest of all, my body screamed, as when I reached the school platform my boyfriend caught my eye, inciting a fizzle in my veins, firing up my heart and governing my skin, which swooned to his touch. As I reached for him, my hand sat in familiar crevices, a warmth that acted as a lingering memory from the weekend before. My friends noticed and screeched in a school-girl manner. I smiled and waved excitedly. You’re such a social butterfly, my boyfriend chuckled, kissing my cheek tenderly, and we walked down the school drive.
Later that day I decided to call the doctor.
You would like to order a poisonous pellet? The side effects are mild, only mood swings and headaches that could make you throw up and breast tenderness and nausea and you could get breast cancer or blood clots but that’s okay, you don’t want to get pregnant now do you? I’ll dispatch it to your local pharmacy and see you in a few months. The phone clicked and moaned as the doctor left me all alone.
I went to the pharmacy to collect my pellets of poison. Take it once a day, they said, take it at the same time every day. From this day onwards, every day at seven I took it, day by day becoming more bound to its schedule. I won’t work if you don’t, the pellet hissed, so I dutifully waited for seven in the evening to arrive. At seven, it was placed onto my tongue and guided into my bloodstream. It ejected the synthetic hormones, as they conglomerated and interlaced with the erythrocytes, becoming a passenger on the journey around my body, teasing my pituitary gland. The synthetic hormones travelled throughout my arms, down my legs, through my organs. They travelled up my back and seeped into my wings, and with each pump of poison, my wings began to crumble. A matter of months went by with the toxin dominating my veins.
I wake up in the morning. Darkness pervades the room, and my body feels too weak to be put to flight.
Darling, time to get up for school! my mum cries.
I groan as I burrow further under my cocoon, seeking solace in the darkness. I can’t be bothered.
The morning strikes me now as a reminder of all the time that has to be filled. Class after class. Meeting after meeting. Smiles expected always, the joyful persona that is expected from my shell. It’s all too much effort. Thinking is too much effort. I beg the sun to recede, to allow me my time alone.
I am buried under my covers, the sheets dusted with the debris of my wings. My friend calls, and our happy faces remind me of a lighter time. It makes me cry.
Dinner tonight? she asks, almost begging. I think about getting home and having to get ready, re-apply all my makeup, wear some uncomfortable clothes with uncomfortable shoes just to get drunk and inevitably cry. It’s exhausting. I think about saying no, but you can’t, you know you can’t, so I muster up the energy to say yes enthusiastically and hang up the phone to claim whatever few minutes more of silence I can get before the world robs more of my energy from me.
I force myself to drag open the windows. I gaze aimlessly at the houses littered in my vision, and I wonder how many other women stare out of their windows across the fields, unknowingly locking their eyes with mine, communicating the shared pain of a harrowing experience?
Slogging down the stairs, I meet my parents around the breakfast table. A croissant is presented to me, but the jam and butter are too heavy, invasive, and the fork screeches incessantly as it scratches across the china. My head pounds, begging for the world to become quieter.
Are you alright, darling? my mum asks.
Of course, I reply automatically. Other women bear the weight of the poisonous pellet. Why can’t I?
I start the cold walk to the station, my hoodie tied close against my head. The cold winds slap me around the face, my frustration increasing, and my wings continue to crumble, the once bright purple now diluted to a washed-out, lifeless grey. I climb onto the train, plug my headphones in and shut my eyes. My thoughts are silent. It isn’t long before the incessant chatter of commuters gives me a headache, the cackle of schoolgirls tempting the pain further and further. The synthetic lights of the train are seeping into the cracks of my eyes. My body tries to fight it all off, to block it all out, but it’s all too much — my wings finally give way, cracking and shattering on the floor beneath me. My silk shirt expands and begins to rise, my legs involuntarily lift, and my arms become crushed against my chest as I become encaged in my pupa. My body heaves as it whittles the silk, each fibre intricately woven, slowly blocking out another aspect of the heavy, noisy world. I am trapped.
The train stops at my station, and I crawl off the train, wings in tow. My boyfriend sees me now, and I smile because I know I love him. I trudge into school, and hear the comments of people as I pass by:
Lordy, she’s hormonal, isn’t she?
She is quite. She’s not as much fun anymore.
I smile at them too. It hurts my face and takes up my energy, but I smile.
Internally I’m screaming for my friends to notice my wings, torn off me, scattered on the floor.