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Black Butterflies

Its outstretched wing gently tapped on the windowpane. It was inaudible, but the reverberation rattled his skull. With each flutter, his memory flickered; a faulty bulb straining to light a room.

Had he ever seen a black butterfly before? Did a black butterfly exist? He reached for the glass; cold on his rigid fingertips. Autumn, he thought.

He’d no idea how long he’d been sat in this chair. Hours, days, or two lifetimes. He couldn’t tell. The winged insect cavorted with a purpose he’d long since lost. Its dance was beautiful, demonic. Suddenly, he remembered. And then – mercifully – he forgot again.



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