PROLOGUE

ＮＯＴＥ! I recommend you read with the page color as black in dark mode for this story. It’s just simply a better reading experience, in my humble opinion.

—thnx

ᴘʀᴏʟᴏɢᴜᴇ

The skies were a sunken, lifeless, ashen grey. Tufts of thick clouds crowded the skies, blocking out any hint of sunlight. And the air was a frigid, stiffen cold, that faintly smelled of wet concrete and wilting grass. Saturated into the dark skies was the knife of rain ready to splice out from the bloated clouds.

BANG!

A slither of white thunder screeched out.

The rain could no longer be kept at bay, and with a forceful presence, the bloated clouds exploded, rain bursting out from clouds bellies.

Pitter!

Patter!

Droplets of rain crashed towards the overcast ground. In the blink of an eye, everything became overtaken by the rain turning into murky, grey, and slimy wet damp. Water suffocated the grass and the budding of other struggling green lives. The rain was pouring. Pounding. Thrashing. Bashing.

Thud!

The sound of striking rain punched the ground hard, creating a loud cacophony of drumming and slamming.

“Lotty? You’re going to get wet, dear. Come inside!” A tenderly coddling mothering voice called out from the house backdoor.

From the back door porch, a youthful looking woman stood there arms folded, her small frame inside of a flowing yellow sundress.

For a moment, a cool draft brushed through her curly brown hair, and lighting rumbled in the background.

“Lotty?” The woman raised her voice, her amber brown eyes glued to a tiny crouched child sitting in the center of their backyard garden. “Lotty I know you heard me! Come inside before you catch a cold!”

Pitter!

Patter!

The rain continued to hammer on, completely drenching the child who stood motionless and silent in her position.

“Charlotte Cane.” The woman firmly called to the child. “Your mother is speaking to you.”

Thud!

Rain continued to pound against the ground and the grass. Even so, despite the downpour of rain, the small child remained rooted in her place. Not a single muscle of hers moved. She sat completely still. As still as stone and as unmoved as a statue. Her tiny feet were glued in her red shoes, and floods of water rolled off her bare head, sinking into the fibers of her hair and her white dress tied that was tied with a red ribbon.

“Charlotte, you’ll catch a cold if you don’t come in.” She tried once more to earn her child’s attention.

But all words seemed lost on death ears.

The child said nothing and did nothing.

Still. She remained ever so still.

“Charlotte, for goodness sake—.” She paused to step one foot outside from the back patio door. “Answer me. I know you hear me.”

Still, her child did not move.

Thud!

“Okay, Charlotte.” She stepped away from the patio door and paced through the rain towards her gravely and deathly quiet child. “What are you doing?” she questioned, blocking rain from her eyes with her hand.

“Is…is it….” The child turned around to face her mother, their amber brown eyes shining of the same color, yet with different emotions. Confusion filled the mother’s eyes, but fear—fear consumed the child’s eyes.

“Is…is it…dead?” The child sniffled, icy rain running down her glassy eyes.

“What’s dead, dear?” She brushed back coils of shiny chestnut hair and crouched down to her sniveling child.

“Is…it dead?” The small girl asked again, dread expanding on her face with every vowel. Her stout, tiny fingers gradually pointed to a crushed butterfly on a circular grass spot between a row of daisies.

The butterfly had been crushed; its thin black antennas were smashed and its beautiful rainbow colored wings were broken into jagged spliced bits.

“I…. didn’t mean to step on it… ” Her voice wobbled in fear, sobs starting to chop up her speech. “Am I a sinner? Have I sinned, Mommy?” Her cries were becoming desperate as she sobbed, a waterfall of tears mixing with rain splatting on her cheeks.

“Oh, Charlotte.” Her mother sighed, rubbing her arm as the rainy skies thundered.

“Is it really dead? Did I really kill it?” Her tears were becoming an unstoppable storm of emotions.

“No, no. Charlotte.” She responded, heartfelt concern in her gentle voice.

“I killed it, didn’t I? I’m a sinner. I killed something!” The little girl loudly sobbed.

“Charlotte, enough dear.” Her eyes jumped from her crying daughter to the mutilated butterfly corpse. “My dear, it’s not dead.” She comfortingly rubbed her daughter’s shoulder with a smile.

“Huh?” Her intense crying weakened. “It’s not dead?”

“Yes.” She wiped tears away from large dewy eyes. “You see, Charlotte, the butterfly is doing what’s called, playing dead.”

“Playing dead?”

“That’s right.”

A streak of bright thunder struck the sky.

“Sometimes, animals like to play dead.” She brushed away more tears.

“The butterfly is playing dead?” The little girl’s eyes grew as they focused on the crushed butterfly.

“That’s right. When animals or even people, feel sick and get hurt or when things get too hard, stressful, overwhelming—or even for no reason at all, sometimes they like to play dead. When you stepped on it, you probably just injured it just a little.” She spoke in a high pitched, babyish voice. “It might be hurt, but it’s not dead.”

“But it looks dead.” The little girl pouted.

“Oh, darling, it only looks dead. It’s alive elsewhere in heaven, but you just can’t see it yet. That’s why it’s playing dead.” Her mother smiled even brighter. “That’s all it is. So don’t cry, my sweetheart.”

She sniffled, her eyes lingering on the dead. “Playing dead?”

Her mother’s smile was sweeter than honey. “Playing dead.”