Flay The Butterfly: A Short Story

Flay The Butterfly

Imane Atkinson was just eight when she was taken. Her purple and yellow spotted blanket lay in the dirt with boot prints scattered across the soft fabric. The palm trees towered over the small girl. She looked up one last time. Saw the green leaves and blue sky one last time. Her mom lay in their house motionless. Her mother a strong women reduced to a splash of blood from one ignorant slash. Her father well he is gone. He was part of a resistance force. He was flying his scout plane over in a distant and was shot down in a fiery blast. Imane was swiftly grabbed up by overpowering evil hands. Hands bigger than her face. She was playing in the woods behind their house when she taken. Minutes earlier her mom had been slayed

She nudged the body to signal for the person to kindly stop. The body did not respond. She felt a pool of liquid spill from seemingly the same direction of the annoying body. She then realized he was dead and again her mother being cut down with a single daft strike. Imane imagined the knife cutting into her mothers slowly aging but shiny skin. This vision persisted until she had her revenge. Imane knew her mom would not want her to murder because of her cruel death. But Imane did not care. She wanted to feel the power. She wanted to spill blood. Imane wanted the meat torn apart in a brutal fashion. But above all she wanted revenge and retribution. There was a problem who really was the enemy. She did not know but intended on finding

Imane was lifted out of the dark green colored vehicle and was tossed onto the ground. She felt a cold metal object cut the twine that previously bound her hands. The bagged ripped of her head. The sun blinded her and her vision was finally able to focus in. She immediately noticed that gone were the palm trees and suttle ocean breeze. It was cold. She was in the mountains now. Each of the surviving children were now given worn down snow gear. Imane looked back at the vehicle and several bodies lay motionless not unlike her mother.

There training soon began. From watching anti-resistance films painting the rebels against child militia into monsters. Imane refused to believe this nonsense but she caught herself often slipping into their ideology. She tossed around the idea of escaping during weapons training, she would be armed as well as the the fact that all of the act that all of the training staff would be occupied by supervising the other children. She hated the soldiers with all her might. They had destroyed her life and many