Defeat of The Butterfly

(Short Story)

Tragedy has two effects on people. It either bridges the cracks between people or it makes all the good between them fall through those cracks.

And just as J. sat in the window-seat in his late father’s library, he realized his family is being affected both ways. He had bridged the cracks between him and his Mom when she leaned on him when the doctors told them that it was painless and sudden, as if they were talking about some smooth transition to a higher form of being rather than a person’s death, a departing of the soul. But at the same time, cracks had formed where there were none between him and his brother. So strong was the tragedy, so strong was the blame; “You could have saved him, you could’ve been there on time!”

As his body remained seated in that window-seat, framed by literature, his mind wandered and J. found himself entering his Dad’s office and looking at the body on the floor. He felt his body freeze and his mind race. He felt his Dad’s assistant push past him, watched as the young man checked his old man’s pulse and called 911 from his cell phone at the same time. He felt himself collapse, his mind imploding.

What if he hadn't been ten minutes late? What if he hadn't spilled juice on his shirt in the morning which he then had to change? What if his driveway wasn't blocked by his neighbor’s minivan? What if the guy who overtook him had gotten out of bed on time that morning? What if the war veteran limping across the road hadn't got shot in the leg during friendly fire? What if the morning train to the City of Lights had left the station on time and the crossing was open when he reached it? What if all this or any of this had happened differently? Would it have been enough? Would it have compelled the Butterfly Effect to change to steer his life’s greatest tragedy away from him?

As J. returned to his body seated on the window-seat of his father’s library, he looked at all the books and he couldn't help but want to write, spill all his hurt on paper, scribble down all the things he couldn't possibly have said to his father even if he had the chance to. Pain, J. thought, is the greatest inspiration.

At that moment, realization dawned on him. Looking around at his father’s treasure trove of books, he realized that’s all it was, the literature that surrounded him was people’s pains, their greatest tragedies, volumes of them. And with that it hit him; this right now could not be his life’s greatest tragedy. He still had too much life to live & how could he, how could anyone, deem any tragedy to be their life’s greatest? This was a momentary pain, a pain that would dull down with the passage of time. They would all start by forgetting the details of the Old Man’s face, the shape of his hands. Then a time would come when their schedules would cease to conform to that of the Old Man’s because he was no longer present at the dinner table or at movie nights. Then they would all start to try and fill the void that he left by things around them, although it would never completely fill. And then slowly the patriarch of the family would fade to a person they all knew and lived with once; to be remembered collectively only on special occasions even though his absence was felt on an individual basis every day.

But this wasn't life’s greatest tragedy. This was a tragedy, but one that would fade. Life’s greatest tragedy would be if J. ceased to live, if he spent the rest of his days mourning a loss that he could not have prevented. But what if a single instance had changed the works of the Butterfly Effect? And he knew in that instant that it wouldn't have made a difference. He realized tragedy was above and beyond the Butterfly Effect. Tragedy would have hit even if he was there on time to pick up his Dad for lunch. If one thing could defeat the Butterfly Effect, it was tragedy; the “impending doom” waiting for its “moment or triumph”.

He got up from the window-seat just as he saw the Sun touching the horizon, setting on the life he was used to. He sat at his father’s desk and fired up the PC. He opened a word processor and without thinking, started putting his pain on (what would eventually be) paper.

When he finished writing his life’s tragedy like so many had done before him, the one’s whose pain he was surrounded by, he went to the top of the document. Every great tragedy deserves a great title. And his work, he titled:

“Defeat of the Butterfly”

And when he finally left the library, he vowed to not let this be his Life’s Greatest Tragedy; he vowed to live, even if only to spite Tragedy.