The Butterfly and the Needle

He at twenty circled his prey. A town hall dance, jovial night-dark outside, he circled half listening to his mates as they discussed the ladies on the dance floor-he rose above all this, knew exactly what he wanted-saw-spied, hovered around the hall, from column to column, always staring, and fatally she met his eyes.

Within a trice he-smiled at her, oblivious to her preoccupation with her girl friends. He smiled and talked quietly, smiled and all the while he was urinating over her shoes.

They married; she cast off her freedom as rapid as he dismissed his friends. All was sorted.

And he knew that what he found and risked being taken away-he would never find again-she being so valuable. He clenched her hard – like a little boy who had found a florin, wanted to tell – but feared it would be taken from him if he did. So he pulled her away, gently, slyly, and she saw a talent -potential and hope of rescue from the slums-and she slid-in his direction-to the coldness of a reality hitherto not taught-unknown.

He went on bended knee-a one off humiliating gesture that had to be done, a cringe and false smiles, evil-wicked.

He promised to place her on a pedestal; he laid a foundation in the garden of their home.

Snap dragons, blue bells and pansies lined the route to it.

But instead of a shaping a goddess, he built with bricks.

She wanted to carry on dancing at the town hall. He introduced her to economics. A brick was laid. She asked for new clothes-same thing, another brick was laid. She needed a holiday, she was cold in winter, there was never enough housekeeping money, she longed for a child, he asked her to volunteer for overtime, she worked overtime-needed shoes, she strayed into the warmth of her siblings homes, cried over cucumber sandwiches at her parent’s house, confided her misery to the baker, butcher, coalman – sobbed at breakfast tables of neighbours.

Soon her wailings were heard no more. The bricks were immovable; he left a mouse hole through which she could breathe. For many years she remained hidden. He fed her via the hole. Until one morning as he looked through his kitchen window at the stone cell monument – no steaming breath drifted from the breathing orifice, he ran to the chimney-shouted, poked, and became anxious-realising what he had done.

All his efforts to remove the brick prison failed. He paced up and down, chiselled, bashed with a lump hammer, but the breath and the body failed to respond.

He force fed the hole, until the hole gave off a repugnant stench, he adorned the chimney with sweet smelling flowers, splashed cheap scent; day after day he conversed with the chimney, nice words, promises and exaggerations.

Her blossomed life had been imprisoned by him – a control freak.

He dared not leave the house for any length of time for fear she may wake. He was restricted regarding his shopping habits for fear that he may be discovered-money was wasted. He slipped up when questioned by a butcher.

“Just one lamb chop sir?”

“Well when the wife was alive it was two”…his heart raced…hell! He would have to be more careful.

The flower he plucked in the town hall dance- shed petals in darkness , withered and died in a sharp bricked chimney – never knowing, hardly understanding the male who smiled at her while urinating on her shoes.

And the b…..d lives.

As if in all innocence – he does.