Inside a malicious womb of darkness crouched a crying child. Her dimly glowing spirit, strangled by the merciless hands of darkness, convulsed and spasmed like a butterfly pinned to a wall.
A brief knock resounded and subsequently a section of the womb peeled away to reveal the face of a man. He had full, ruddy cheeks and a red, doorknob-shaped nose. A smile spread across his face like a flock of sparrows ascending from a tree into the warmth of early dawn. What a lovely smile he had, wide and wrinkled with years of merriment.
“You’re gonna be OK!” He swore to the child inside the womb of darkness.
The child’s spirit bled hot tears that stung like acid even as the dying butterfly flapped its wings once, twice. “But how do you know?!” She wailed.
“I’ve been to the future of course. Your future.”
“But how did you know then? Slash, how will you know then?” She begged.
“It’s easy. Whenever anybody asked you how you were, you said, ‘I’m OK.’ You actually said ‘I’m good’ sometimes, too. See, the future ain’t so bad!”
But the spirit was flash frozen in liquid shock; it no longer listened. The butterfly dared not flutter a single, iridescent wing and the jealous shadows crept like hungry moss over the window, shutting out the time traveller’s red nose and white lies.
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