Dissection

As a child, I was enthralled by moths. The way they circled the light made me think of dancing angels.
I eventually managed to catch one, and in my curiosity, I decided to dissect it.
The blade of my knife slid gently over its abdomen, slicing it open.
Carefully, I removed its insides and after an hour of labor all that was left was a lovely carcass with feathered wings.

It wasn't until after it was done that I understood. Dead things are not beautiful. A moth's corpse cannot dance with fire.

Still, I kept the small insect inside a box until the wings turned brittle and crumbled into dust.

Ellie reminds me of it.

Everything about her is frail and small. Jutting shoulders, skeletal hands, a protruding collarbone. Her eye sockets are cavernous and her cheekbones sunken.
"You're quiet, Noah, what are you thinking about?"
Her voice is soft and her gaze is solemn.  

"Moths," I tell her.

Her thin lips curl in disgust and her scraped knuckles tighten. Blood flows from the cuts, but she doesn't seem to notice. "I hate those things. Butterflies, on the other hand.... everyone knows butterflies are beautiful."

I shrug, looking away. It doesn't surprise me. Hell, it even makes sense. Of course Ellie would not be able to see the appeal in anything other than traditionally pretty things.
The world she would like to live in is black and white, aesthetically pleasing, orderly.
She has told me before, ugly, chaotic things terrify her.

"Noah, what about me?" Her cold fingers dig into my arm painfully, almost like claws.

I pretend I don't know what she means.  It's easier than lying. "What about you, Ellie?"

She leans forward, until her sour breath hits my face. Her hand toys with a strand of cornsilk, brittle hair shyly. "Do you think I'm beautiful?"

No, Ellie. You disgust me.
That's what I want to tell her.
I want to grab her shoulders and scream, because I hate how selfishly she throws her life away.
Instead I nod, and cradle her head like a child. She encircles me in her arms.
And all the while I cannot stop thinking about the angel wings and crumbling carcass of the moth I cut open as a child.