by M. J. Joachim
Butterflies, a myriad of fluttering, colorful butterflies swirled overhead. Genevieve could feel the gentle breeze from their wings as she reached out, lengthening her arms, struggling to feel them flutter at her fingertips.
The lights were so bright, blinding, though distant. She could hear the voices shouting at her, “No, stop fighting! This battle can’t be won by force!” She could hear the far off sighs and hushed whispers, “It’s wasn’t supposed to happen like this. It’s so awful – so damned ugly! Why?”
A sudden thrust overpowered her, as Genevieve was confronted with the horrible truth. The butterflies were gone now. Darkness filled the room; the odor of burning flesh invaded her senses.
Cancer! Everyone said she died of cancer! Genevieve knew she didn’t die from a disease of the body. Those last moments in the operating room were unmistakable. Hers was a death caused by cruelty to everyone she met, a death of a soul mastered by pride, arrogance and selfish misgivings – an eternal death, where sorrow was never expressed, and injury to others was readily expected.
Never-the-less, butterflies were released at her funeral.