On the morning in question, his first thoughts were of butterflies.
Not the nervous kind; those were thoughts for another day. No, today he marvelled at the concept of starting again, and becoming something better, something prettier, something more elegant. As he willed his limbs to make their first movements, feeling the familiar linen soft against his skin, he smiled; his duvet was his cocoon, and today, he would learn to fly.
Yes, today would be a big day, and he knew that he had to prepare. Instant gratification was not something offered by Mother Nature, he knew, otherwise she would have bypassed caterpillars altogether. You do not appreciate something until you’ve spent half a lifetime tunnelling through mouldy fruit, he supposed, and it was this thought process that he followed through to the bathroom.
His question now was, which suit did he wear? Which face did he paint on, to better greet the day with? For today was definitely going to be a good day, that much he promised himself. Of course, he knew it wasn’t really what he looked like, but what was inside that counted, and like the caterpillar, his efforts were a means to an end of finding himself again.
He opened the cabinet, and cast an eye across his tools. Which one to choose? All had the capacity to make him fly, and he had spent so much time being carried on their wings that he had grown unaccustomed to the ground. Which one would it be? He couldn’t afford to do this wrong, to blow his chance of reaching the air and never coming down again. With this thought in his head, he made his choice.
Today was going to be a good day.
On the morning in question, finally her thoughts were of leaving.
She turned her head and looked at the empty space beside her, and habitually turned her eyes towards the place that she knew that he stood. To her there was nothing more disconcerting than waking up each morning with a different person in her bathroom, a person that she still pretended she knew.
Because pretending was all either of them knew. But she couldn’t do it any longer. She couldn’t pretend that poisons were another word for personality, and that these pesticides hadn’t left a trail that she could no longer follow. The pills had become the person, and the mistakes had become the norm.
She cast another look towards the bathroom, and knew that today was going to be a bad day, but the first of a life still good.
She knew that he’d never stop chasing dragons.
Instead, she would settle for butterflies.