Title: Monarch Mother

Author: TangleToy or Tangles

Disclaimer: I do not own the concept of the Marvel Universe, or the mutant populace that inhabits it. The TCP label belongs to Kielle I am making no money off this story. I am smiling ear to ear though, and that’s quite payment enough.

Story Notes: Just us TCP’s here. No Gambits, Jean Greys, or Magnetos to be had. This is not part of the Haven series. The story is rated PG for disturbing imagery.

Author Notes: This came out quite suddenly late at night, and so I snatched up beta readers from anyone in reaching distance. Besides being very willing, they were all very lovely. ~g~ Now featured on the beta reader shrine: Brucha and Jim Smith. Thank you both. No MSTing or pop ups please. Achive after asking. Feedback is good. Flamers will be fed to rabid Bampfs.

There was rain out in the dark sky, but the sound of thunder inside was a fist against skin. Over and over there was no lightning, but the sound bounced around the walls of the dark paneled living room just the same. And the rain was inside, trailing down Mom’s cheeks. Oh god, just make it stop! Make it stop, make it stop, someone make it stop.

"Things are gonna change ‘round here," he says. But they never do. It’s always the same, the green-gold corn stalks growing around the house; the dark wood paneling around the living room wall; Mother’s butterfly collection of the little shelves circling us; the bruises; the crying. The stifling sameness that traps us in ways we can’t even fathom, never changes. We’re trapped in our own makings. It always clings to us like the smell of pollen and corn spunk.

There’s a final crack and the sound of a tree falling, but it’s just her body hitting the wall. Mom crumbles down it, curling up into something dead. The sap is all leaking out of her in a dark puddle on the good carpet. Oh God, make it stop. Anything. My soul. Just end it.

I’m the only one standing, and the storm comes for me. I’m a rod, attracting the rolling white heat of a rage bigger than this room can hold. I can’t move out of the way. I can’t miss what Mom saw before me. I want to see the eye of the storm, the calm in that fist. There’s a need in me. I can feel myself pulling it. Attracting. Needing. I have to have it.

The world slows down, being wrapped in cotton. The images are fuzzy and the sounds so soft. Mother has risen like a savior rescuing his flock, and she is so beautiful to me. Gone is the blood, and the bruising. She is my perfect angel. My butterfly.

Soft wings on my face brush away tears, and wings open on my eyes like hands. She doesn’t say it, but I can feel her tell me it’s all right. Butterflies can’t fly in a storm, but she’s flying now. Mom has slipped out of her cocoon and she’s flying away, the sameness finally broken. Oh, take me with you, Monarch Mother.

Dad could never explain to the police what happened to Mom. No one could believe she would up and leave, after being beaten down so badly. No one could believe his story of events, either. People don’t burst into a million butterflies, and they don’t just fly away. But after that night, I did. I got out of that house and never looked back.

I can feel a change coming on. That’s what I do. I change things. I sold my soul for the gift, and I won’t give it back. But that’s okay. We’re all meant to be butterflies.

~fin~