Butterfly Wings ,
Thorned Roses
BY TIFFANY FAULKNER
W
’
ith the sound of tapping fingers,
droplets of rain hit the window
of the dimly lit room, interrupted by rumbles of distant thunder. Lightning cracked,
something that made Weller flinch almost every
time it sounded nearby. At the desk he wrote in a
journal, messy and loopy font hard to decipher by
anyone but him. Typical doctor’s scrawl, but it was
just an added bonus in his eyes. That just meant nobody could read his journal entries.
A coffee cup sat forgotten, chilled as an arctic
wind after at least an hour of sitting untouched. He
got lost in his ponderings too easily, and at the worst
times; like when he’d be in the midst of a conversation with Sull and cut it off, silence engulfing the two,
although he never seemed to mind it. And like now,
where he couldn’t sleep for the thoughts that fought
off his tired haze. It was sometime past midnight,
and Weller needed to bleed onto the paper some
more before he ever thought of dreaming.
21
’
’
’
Outside’s cacophony had been so loud he
hadn’t caught the quiet shuffling until it stopped at
the doorway, and caught mid-word the medic
looked up, graphite making a straying trail from the
letter he’d been meaning to write. He’d wondered
how the other could sleep with the raging storm,
seeing as he hardly slept at all. Weller grinned at him
with a bit of H