Did it happen when he crushed the butterfly in his palm? Squishing it's tiny life in the clench of his fist, as he watched its pretty tiger wings twitch in sheer agony, as they poked out from between his curled fingers, before stopping all movement. When he opened up his hand, he saw the little bug was dead. The little boy sat there on the sidewalk, legs crossed, as he let his other hand touch the useless wings. They were so large, so detailed and pretty.
The air outside was crisp and silent, as the breeze came around to stroke the stringy blonde hair of the little boy's, as he continued to look down at the dead butterfly. It was such a nice day out to play, but he sat in his backyard, secluded from the world by just the thin walls of his tall wooden fences. Sounds of cars driving by and some people walking by didn't interest him. His silvery eyes were fixed on those wings.
His fingertips touched and felt the wings, how papery they were against his skin. He could s