ODE TO THE MURDERED, bonten

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PROLOGUE !
sick boy's butterfly effect.

IT ALL STARTED WITH a small butterfly pinched between your fingers.

your young silhouette is crouched between the shrubs, lushed greenery and soft pickle grass that tickled your legs. the dusk hangs above your hair, painting the skyscraper and rooftop garden in reds and oranges and pink, but you paid it no mind. lazy eyes sweeping through the butterfly's colored wings, almond brown and tinged with golds.

    "so this is where you were?"

a husk voice interrupts the concentration you had, barely lifting your eyes when a much larger figure makes himself known, he crouches down with you.

    "found you." Marise, your half brother who is older than you by five years grins at you crookedly. you hum at his response, dragging your attention back to the small fluttering critter within your palm.

    "why are you here? i thought you're going out tonight." you shoot the question.

    you hear Marise let out a breathy chuckle, then a warm hand lands on the top of your head making you still all of your movements. your brother rubs his fingers through your strands, humming to himself. "you said you wanted me to help you with your homework?"

    "i only said that because you've been going outside a lot more than usual, you are rarely around the house. it was getting lonely." you responded a sad whisper, bitter and nicotine drenched with honesty and hushed spite.

    boys like Marise are different. a product of wild skins accompanied with a rebellious heart. though he grins at you with those boyish smiles so bright and golden—in the streets, your brother is a rogue. a street fighter, conquering the alleyways with his golden rimmed skateboard. he digs his claws on the broken skins of others, kissing his knuckles in blood red of his opponents.

a far cry from the perfect brother figure who lives with a golden spoon in his mouth.

    that is something that you hated and admired.

    because to you, it didn't matter that your brother was not a perfect and dutiful brother. Marise raised you, he was fundamentally your backbone and refuge when both your parents were absent. like an angel he was like the daunting icarus with wings, young and a riot of counterfeit heart. you were convinced your brother was heaven sent, a deity of sunburnt flesh and asteroids for eyes.

others would've told you otherwise, but you knew better than them to know who Marise truly was from inside and out.

    you feel his warm hand leaves your hair and you glance up at him silently, watching as he turns his back on you, eyes quiet on the distant skies swimming with pinks on the horizon.

    he turns his head at you, sends you a soft smile over his shoulder. "i'll go out again tonight," your frown is evident on your face, but Marise continues. "but i won't be fighting, come with me, let's go painting, just the two of us."

    your eyes brighten, teetering with white stars as you nod your head with a hum. unaware of how the butterfly in your hand drew its last breath.

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            you had done this more than three times before. when night conquers the sky—you and your brother are slipping out from the penthouse like professional escape artists perfecting the art of sneaking with light feathered feet. inside the bag that you carried along with you were a few bottles of paint spray, a few cans of soft drinks, a small pack of cigarettes that Marise slipped in secret, and two respirator masks. you followed your brother down the empty streets of Tokyo, fingers pinching firmly at the edge of his jacket.