Caged Anisiia Isaeva

Caged Anisiia Isaeva Digital Painting

also stuck physically, allowing Niamsworth to carry out his plan. As the men hauled the flowers closer to him the flowers exhaled and sprinkled a powdery, neon yellow debris in their path. Carl, still frozen, grew less and less stable, his awareness cutting in and out.

“Alright people, show’s over,” was the last sentence Carl heard, the voice distorted and slow before everything went black.

Carl shook awake after having the fifth dream that week that felt like he was falling. His head felt lighter on his shoulders, and he wobbled from side to side as he picked himself up from the nutrient-filled soil that lay beneath him. He noticed a sharp pain in his back. It throbbed almost as if something had pierced through his thin dough of skin. Straining his stubby arms, he scanned his back for what it could be, but couldn’t reach the source of his pain. Then his eyes widened, a smile spread across his face, thin but wide.

My wings? he thought.

Carl didn’t run, but he speed-walked, and there he was in front of that same mirror from the previous night. This time he was sure of it. Carl unbuttoned the white dress shirt that hugged his body, tie-dyed with dirt. He did this, while mindful of the thin thread that conjoined the button with the delicate fabric. Then it hit the floor, crushing the air beneath it. At this point, Carl had rotated his back to the mirror, his head still avoiding the answer to his question. Finally, his eyes met the wounds in his back.

Shards of his magenta flower pot, his rusted blood disguising the design that persuaded Carl to purchase it initially. Carl gave no reaction and returned the dress shirt to his body, the ceramic shards still a part of him.

He decided to return to the garden to say goodnight. It wasn’t dark out just yet, but the sun was no longer beating down on him and that was enough for him to find refuge in his cozy, one-bedroom cottage. But, before he could take a step back inside, Carl noticed a lack of fluttering, the fluttering that typically slowed as the light dimmed but was always still evident to Carl’s ears. Carl turned to the silence in hopes that it was his ears that were failing him; perhaps he hadn’t cleaned them properly the night before.

Once he was facing the garden again, four stalky, tree-sized flowers stared him down. A blue flier among the white and red petals caught his eye. He opened it with caution, and an unsettling yet expectant feeling arose in his stomach. It read, “ENVY VALLEY MUSEUM OF AWE, FREE ADMISSION FOR ONE NIGHT ONLY!” signed with a red pen by one “G.N.” Carl ripped one of the flowers from its stalk and trampled through his backyard door, abandoning the now dull garden as it already began its process of withering, perhaps grieving.

Carl stomped his way through the doorway of his own den, ripping his coat off the rack and impaling his fuzzy boots with the aggravated feet attached to him. Carl didn’t have a car, and it would have been especially unsafe if he did at this time. Still following his path of rage, he grouped with the crowd that was heading toward the flashing green lights at the

epicenter of Envy Valley. The head of the white flower was crumbling in Carl’s hands, Carl’s fingernails puncturing the flower’s brain along with his own palm, drops of his blood contaminating the remains. As soon as the line was permitted to enter the facility, he plunged through the bystanders and found his way through the exhibit.

After a good forty-five minutes of searching, there it was. In an elevated glass case, not a smudge to be pointed out, not an imperfection on the pedestal to be picked apart. But contained was a once free creature. A creature that devastatingly expressed its longing for the freedom it had never taken for granted. And the buttercup below the floating entity dropped its head, apologizing for witnessing the events.

And though Carl should’ve felt sad or enraged at the situation for how it had affected the butterfly, his worry for the butterfly turned to jealousy for the appreciation, praise, and want everyone had shown to it. As tears welled up in his eyes, he smiled from ear to ear, his eyes shrinking and pushing the droplet down his face. He clapped, cheered, and cooed. The nectar of a promise floated down and around him with each clap; he would sleep well tonight, but wake up to his garden dry of color.