Butterfly

She examines the open suitcase in front of her and wondered if having to tote all this stuff around was going against the point of the trip. She took out her hair dryer and placed it on the bed beside the suitcase, imagining seeing it there when she got back.
She chides herself for already coming back in her head. She closes the suitcase and carries it to the front door, committing to herself that she would add nothing more, nor be tempted to take anything else out. She eyes the suitcase cautiously, she was forgetting something; but the washing machine dinged and she went to transfer her sheets to the dryer. Nothing like your own bed and clean sheets when you got back from a trip.
That's what she thinks now, she wondered if she would come back different, and so think something different? She wasn't young enough to hope for that.
Keys, wallet, passport.
She lookes out her peephole out of habit, leaning her weight against the door. She thought the phone would ring soon, and when it does it still startles her. She sat on the edge of the stool so she wouldn't get comfortable, wouldn't let her body trick her into a long conversation. She winced when she said, "Mom," because it sounded like she was still a teenager. She cradled the phone with her shoulder and pantomimed tying bows with her fingers, talking to her mother distractedly. Her mother wanted to know what This Whole Trip was supposed to Be About and she didn't know how to answer her, so she just repeated how long she'd be gone. She thanked God she didn't have any animals because having to ask her mother to take care of them would've been unbearable.
That's when it occurs to her that if she had had animals, her mother was the only person she could have called. She looks at how long the call took before she presses END and powers it down. She places it neatly in a drawer and wonders if she should leave herself a note as to where he phone is. But she decides that the hairdryer on the bed will be enough of a reminder of how banal she was, and turns away from the deposited device.
In the store last night she stood in the cosmetics section looking at several versions of the same woman for seven minutes. She thought 'seven' because 'ten' is what everyone says. Despite the promises of "Ravishing Red" and "Brunette Brevity" she decided not to color her hair, as that would only substitute the change she was going to make.
In the airport today, she's happy with the decision she made as she provides her passport and its photo identification.
On the plane she accepts, please-thank you, an apple juice and crumples the foil lid in her hand. Just a few weeks ago she would have folded neatly, and she certainly wouldn't have deposited it onto the floor. She had changed.
In the cab shes asks the driver, "What's that smell?" and hopes she sounds demanding.
She scatters the contents of her suitcase onto the hotel floor and pulls off her clothes. In she shower she breaths in the steam, and as she exhales it pulls with it the old lining of herself, vaporizing in the air. She watches the water well in her hands and she lets it fall with a satisfying splash. She will misuse this facility. She will use up all the hot water in this hotel. She will drain the watersheds of this country for her shower.
She leaves wet foots prints on the carpet and stands at the window naked. She can see the pool below but is looking at her reflection. Inside, she thrashes against this image of herself, inside, she wants to pull the flesh back.
At the bar she shrugs at the bartender, the music is too loud and she doesn't understand his language. The drink he brings her is tart and burns her throat but she likes it. She knows she will never have it again and will never know the name for it.
Her hand is on the man's knee and she wonders if he plays soccer. She smiles when he laughs and wonders what his bare chest looks like. Her old self would be worried about waking up with a few less organs. She was different now, she thinks as her hand rides up his thigh.
In her room she pushes him onto the bed and grinds down against him. Her nails wrench into his chest and he squirms from the pain. She is full of him and his hands are on her wrists, she relinquishes some of the control and hopes he will sleep here so she can fantasize about killing him.
She is shopping in some district and she thinks she sees him, but doesn't. She is about to buy her mother something, but doesn't. She considers taking interest in a game of chess two men are playing, but doesn't. Instead, she tosses a glass Pepsi bottle down a flight of stairs and grits her teeth against the noise.
She drinks the water because she's not supposed to and considers peeing in the ocean. She changes her mind and decides to go back to her room; the destruction is waning and she thinks the metamorphosis is almost complete.
This time on the plane she does not accept a drink. Instead she counts her teeth, over and over, with the tip of her tongue. She wonders if she would instinctively know how to break an animal's neck, like a cat. She thinks about watching her fingertips as a child, trying to watch them grow.
No one knew when she would be back, but she still feels a little disappointed there's no one waiting for her at the airport. She scans the crowd around her slowly, as if she is looking for someone in particular. Instead, she is taking stock of all the people she owns. She imagines leaving footprints in the thin carpet as if it were sand, she was different now.
Her suitcase is the first to appear at the baggage claim and she considers leaving it there, but in the end doesn't.
In the cab she asks, "What's the smell?" but she really doesn't smell anything. The driver sounds apologetic anyways.
Her mother isn't waiting outside the burned-out shell of her house because she didn't know when she would be back. Standing on the sidewalk, her tongue feels like a swollen sausage inside her mouth. The cab driver can think of nothing to say except, "You're sure this is it?"
Caution tape makes a perimeter around her yard and the siding is blackened where the flames licked out her windows. From here, the roof looks relatively untouched, like a lid on top of a jar of havoc.
Once they realize she's back, the neighbors begin to slowly file out of their houses. Some strange ritual is about to commence, made all the more unquieting because they don't know her name. A man in a polo shirt reaches out to touch her arm then thinks better of it. An old woman admonishes that everyone thought she was in there when the house was burning, no one knew where she was.
The fire inspector had determined that the point of origin for the fire had been the dryer; the only thing inside had been sheets, maybe curtains.
She can't allow these people to see her laughing, and she wonders what she'll have to think about to get herself to cry. She gets back into the cab and tells the driver where she wants to go.
This time she does leave her suitcase, there on the sidewalk.
She stretches her wings and blazes with color.
Metamorphosis complete.