A BUTTERFLY, PT. 2

 

A BUTTERFLY , PT. 2

 

He had parked his car on the fifth floor, which meant a lift to the ticket machine on the fourth and then an escalator up. With the ground floor at capacity, any chance of a solitary ride up was a pipe dream - families were queuing outside the lift and being replaced in a matter of seconds once they had clambered in. The glass box was in a constant state of flux and he could be sure that what went up would certainly come back down, so there was no need to press the button. His best bet, he reckoned, was to stand about five feet away and jump in with the smallest party he could find. 

A group of five: a mum, a grandma and three children. Too big.

A group of four: a dad, another dad and two children. Too big.

Two groups: one wheelchair and a carer; and one mum with a child and a pushchair. No chance. 

It crossed his mind as he watched the droves preparing to fly away from the grotto that there might be more people leaving the shopping centre than entering it. The number of punters relentlessly piling up to catch their rides out of there was surely greater than the number alighting the lift upon its descent. Still, as he took a momentary glance back out to the atrium (and this had to be momentary or he could lose a potential chance), it was clear that the swarm hadn’t diminished in size, or veracity. 

The stop that he had made to the face-painting stall, it was now revealed to him, had been perfectly timed. Amongst the rabble he hardly observed any children anymore, it was just parents pulling their penguins and tigers and frogs and unicorns around by their humanoid hands. It appeared that every child and their dog had, at some point, sat down with the red-haired Monet and felt her cold brush-tip glide along their linoleum cheeks. The business model was impressive. If it had cost him £5 to get his very own butterfly mural, then he guessed that she must have made something to the tune of £370 by 2 o’clock. Accounting for the fact that a set of face paints from Amazon cost - he estimated - something like £15, and that she would likely need to buy two sets for safety, it looked like she was going to be taking home around £400 if she continued to sit on her arse and waggle her wrist until 4. It felt depressing to know that industrious people existed. His grip tightened on the cardboard that hugged his new boxers - at least there was something to look forward to. 

Newly reminded of his purchase, he became infected with a stronger determination to catch the next available lift. He needed to get back home and try them on. He had to know what they could do for him. There was no use in now owning them if he couldn’t prove to himself that owning them was worthwhile. £25.99. 

In a moment of bloody-mindedness he decided that the next lift to open would be his, no matter what. Nobody was going to stifle his journey now, wheelchair user or not. And then came the ding. 

The doors opened and two groups fell out, holding bags from shops located on the second floor of the mall. Why they had to use a lift, and not the escalator, to descend one floor felt like an act of extreme selfishness to him. Anyway, they were irrelevant now. His real adversaries were a family of three who had, by then, entered his five foot exclusion zone and were heading fast towards the open doors. They were two adults and one child. Before his skull had time to think, his legs had made three exaggerated steps to retain his advantage. From the threshold he launched himself into the corner of the lift and pressed 4. In close second were the family, who bumbled in as one behind him, politely smiling. The man reached to press 4. 

By some freak of probability, no one else followed. 

He must have been in his late thirties - the man, who was assumed to be ‘dad’ - and was wearing an unzipped Karrimor gilet. The woman - who was, by virtue of circumstance, assumed to be ‘mum’ - looked to be around the same age and had sickly blond hair which had been straightened to within an inch of its life. The child - who was assumed to be a girl and, by that token, ‘their little girl’ - was faced towards ‘mum’ and ‘dad’ and had antlers on her head. 

The lift started to move upwards.

Looking out from within the glass case, he could now see the tops of the heads that had previously been unobservable to him. Bald spots. Grey roots. Elf hats. The new silence inside the lift sharply altered his perspective: he knew there was noise happening out there and he could see the laughter on people’s faces, but he could no longer reach it. It was strange; as if somebody had dressed him in earmuffs and the wrong glasses. Like being in a fish tank.

 

LEVEL 1 

 

“Ah, so you’ve been enjoying the party too, huh?” Came a voice from the dad, interrupting his pensiveness. He could see in his periphery that the man was looking square at him, but kept his eyes firmly on the hoards below. At this point he hoped that some more people might clamber in and pad out the space between them, but Level One offered no relief and the doors closed again.

“Ha. Oh yeeeeah!” Said the mum, smirking and pointing to him limply from across the wobbling floor. “Look, darling…” 

“Mummy, can I have a sweetie?” The child’s voice nagged.

“Wait until we get to the car, darling, and I’ll have a look in my bag… Look darling…” Pointing in his direction with more enthusiasm.

“But I’m hungry, mummy!” 

He started to feel queasy and dry. Why was he suddenly on the receiving end of a pointed finger? He couldn’t tell. The grip on his boxers tightened. 

“You’ve got a twin, darling!”

“Ha. Yeah, you’ve got a twin!”

“I don’t care, mummy. I’m hungry!

 

LEVEL 2 

 

Nobody waiting to get in. Fuck.

He couldn’t feign ignorance any longer and turned his head to face them. Shopping bags dripped from their arms like coagulated oil and their shoes looked brand new. The two adults were pointing by then, gesturing with their chins for the girl to turn around, but she refused. It took coercion to get her to face him, two hands on two shoulders and a light shove.

“Look, he’s your TWIN!”

 

LEVEL 3 IS CLOSED FOR MAINTENANCE 

 

Tiny shoulders. A perfectly proportioned human who hadn’t yet metastasized. From between her shit-brown hair he could see it, staring up at him like some kind of predator, baby teeth snarling. That smile could have torn him half.

“HAHAHA! THAT’S SO FUNNY, MUMMY. HE’S A BUTTERFLY TOO!”

A butterfly.

He saw red.

Kicked her in the stomach.

Crouched over her coughing body and fed her with a pair of polar bear boxers until it was lifeless. 

The parents looked hungry too.

 

LEVEL 4