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Imi was born and raised in Europe, Hungary. After finishing his school years, he moved to Canada to search for a better life. He lived in Toronto for 13 years and currently resides in Vancouver. He is a romantic at heart with a strong desire to always do the right thing. He would like to give hope to the Chinese and Asian ladies with his story and send a message that love eventually finds everybody.
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While The Orchids Sleep, The Butterfly Emerges From Its Chrysalis (Part 5)    

By Imi
968 Views | 6 Comments | 6/20/2017 1:24:01 PM

With her arms crossed over her chest, the woman held the comforter as if trying to shield herself against whoever it was in the dark. Despite the insufficient protection the blanket provided, it actually stopped her from screaming out in fear. A little while later, though, when something grazed her forehead, she almost cried out. The only reason for staying silent was that the touch was soft and came with a scent that surprised and muted her. The smell was of orchids; she was able to identify it right away. Someone was touching her forehead, face, and hands with the velvety petals of the flowers.



For a fleeting moment, the woman thought it was her husband. But just as quickly as this idea popped into her head, she deserted the thought entirely. Apart from her husband's allergic reaction to flowers, she just couldn't picture him being romantic like that.



The woman couldn't hear or see anything as she lay there. Only the gentle caress of the orchids painted a striking picture on the walls of her imagination. Despite her fear, she stopped straining her eyes in the dark, closed them, and let her mind do the viewing.



The two orchids, starting from the top of her head, separated and traced the natural flow of her hair on each side and then the outline of her body under the covers all the way down to her feet. From there, skipping the sleeping cat, they came back up, retracing the same route and finally stopping on the top of her head again. It felt as if someone was trying to cut her out of the darkness. Like she was nothing more than the mere illustration of an eye-deceiving reality in a magazine. She couldn't feel the cat's fur against her feet anymore. Her grip on the world beyond her closed eyes was cut clean, and she was left entirely alone somewhere beyond her understanding. Am I hallucinating? she marveled. Or am I staring at the mirage of someone else's fantasy?<



While she mused over this thing, one of the orchids had started to caress her face again softly, stopping on her swollen upper lip as if examining the trauma there. Suddenly, she felt embarrassed and self-conscious. Whoever was in the dark was well aware of her injury. While the orchid gently inspected her lip, whispers began to come from every direction in the dark, echoing as if in a cave. She couldn't make out the meaning of the words, but it seemingly repeated the same thing, the same sentence over and over again, almost sounding like a spiritual chanting from the dawn of times. After this intonation had gone for an untraceable time, from one moment to the other, it stopped. Everything went dead silent around her like animals before a major disaster or an audience before an important announcement. The woman was expecting something to happen, but nothing had had for a while. Only the silence was getting stiflingly unbearable as if all the air in her apartment had been sucked out, creating a vacuum where sounds could travel no more.



Lying on the sofa with bated breath, she listened to the quiet and imagined a snow-covered field, deprived of all life and sounds, with herself in the middle tainting all that white tranquility. The only sound she could hear was coming from within her. Her hammering heart was battering faster and faster against her ribcage. The sharp pain from earlier began to stab her left side once again. Its incessant output gave rise to an intense feeling of disgust for her husband, a surfeit of her life, and, at the same time, a powerful desire to be alone, somewhere on her own, detached from her obsequious self. Strangely enough, she began to sense the silence stretch like an elastic band, thinning and deforming that serene image in her head as if it were painted on a balloon. Before long, the silence was at the point of breaking and ready to snap. And snap, it did. Right next to her ear, a voice said, “Come with me, and you'll be free.” The voice—crystal clear, sounding strong and confident as she had always wanted to be—was her own.



The woman woke with a start just as the front door slammed shut. Heaving, she sat up on the sofa and checked the time. It was six in the morning. Her husband had left without waking her. Not that she had minded passing on their morning encounter after last night's beating. Outside, the early morning had not yet been reinforced by enough sunlight to make a noticeable difference in the semi-darkness of the living room. Street noises, too, could hardly gain volume in the quilted moodiness of the morning. Her cat was sitting at the front door and meowing, apparently hungry. Turning its head and catching its other owner awake, it ran to her, meowing more loudly and purring all at the same time. The woman got up, went to the kitchen, and opened a can of cat food for her impatient feline. After that, looking for an explanation for last night's events, she walked straight to the balcony to check on the orchids. They were still on the concrete railing, looking as they did before: reminiscent of slippers.



The woman had difficulty explaining last night's events. She didn't know what to make of them. The weird darkness, the presence in the living room, the orchids' soft touch on her skin, and her own voice, strong and assertive, were all confusing, unexplainable at the moment, but, in a sense, they all seemed to talk to her, carrying messages, which she had yet to decipher.



Maybe later, she thought, looking out in the distance from the balcony between two neighboring apartment buildings. She saw the night sky bleeding out colors—red, orange, and scarlet—on the skyline. In a feeble attempt, a gust of wind rolled in a few clouds to stanch the flow, but they were no remedy for the demise of the night. The sun had already peeked over the horizon with its merciless rays whipping out the struggling dark.



From the balcony, the woman looked down at the parking lot in front of her building. Her husband, as every morning, was standing below and smoking a cigarette. It was his routine: standing in front of the front gate, right below their apartment, and having a cigarette before heading to work. In the beginning, when the woman moved in, she always watched him from above, but as weeks went by and the physical abuses began, she'd stopped doing it. She stopped because she began to see small details in his movement, magnified by the inertia she felt in her inferior situation. She hated how her husband raised his arm and brought the cigarette to his mouth. The way he sucked on it with his face sinking under his cheekbones. And as he blew the smoke out of his mouth with conceited satisfaction written all over his face as if his life were exemplary. To someone without any knowledge of him, these details could have been trivial characteristics to judge a person by. But to her, in a short period of time, they had already grown out of proportion, casting shade on a huge part of her daily life.



She stopped watching her husband and raised her gaze back up at the sunrise just as she heard her cat meowing behind her. The cat rubbed her body against her feet and, in the next moment, leaped up on the concrete guardrail as if wanting to watch the sunrise, too. Unfortunately, the cat was unaware of the flower pot being placed at its favorite sunbathing spot on the top of the railing, and its head collided with it. Slightly dazed, the cat fell back down inside the balcony, and the orchids toppled over the railing. By reflex, the woman reached for the flowers, but they were already over the narrow protective ledge, and she could do nothing but watch them bounce off of it like two synchronized divers. With her eyes, she followed their falling, rolling, and somersaulting in the air. Halfway down to the ground, one of the orchids separated from its stem and slowed down. The other one continued falling with incredible speed, completely blocking her husband's head below from her view. The woman couldn't bear to watch what would ensue and stepped back from the railing. The next moment, she heard a thud but couldn't tell from the sound whether the pot had hit her husband's head or not. Very slowly, trying to stay in the shade of the overhead balcony, she inched closer to the railing and cautiously looked down.



The flower pot was broken to pieces, scattered on the ground. The soil exploded outward from the center of the impact with arms reaching in every direction like the tentacles of an octopus. The orchid with the stem still attached lay a few feet away from the crash site. The other one without the stem had landed on her husband's left shoulder. Looking at the mess, puzzled, her husband stood fewer than six inches from the impact. If the flower pot had been set only a few inches to the right on the railing, it could have killed him.



Her husband looked up and searched the balconies one by one with his eyes. The woman pulled back from the railing, thinking how lucky she was that her husband hadn't seen the orchids last night. If he did, he would have realized that the pot was fallen off their balcony and, in all likelihood, would be running up the stairs by now with the intent to kill her.



Once again, carefully, she inched closer to the railing and looked down. What she saw down there now completely astonished her. Her husband bent down, picked up the healthy orchid with the stem from the ground, and held it to his nose. By then, curious about what would happen, the woman forgot about being careful and leaned over the railing to take a better look at her husband. Drawing from the way her husband told her how much he disliked flowers for the only reason that they caused allergic reactions to him, the woman expected to see a swollen face and hands in seconds or an exploding head or eyes bulging out of their sockets. Of course, none of that happened. Her husband simply extinguished his cigarette on the ground with his shoe and walked away with the orchid—her orchid—in his hand.



The woman felt cheated and deceived. She realized she was living in a fake world with the pretense of a man who had forced his own false living on her. Those orchids were the only good things that had happened to her since she had married him—that were real in the otherwise inverted existence of hers. She was, without a doubt, trapped in a glass jar, looking all that misrepresentation of the twisted world from the inside. Suddenly, her dream—or whatever it was that she'd experienced last night—made sense to her.



Angry and equally shamed of her blindness, the woman grabbed the cat from her feet and went inside her apartment.


Copyright owned jointly by Author and CyberCupid Co., Ltd. Breach of copyright will be prosecuted.
Comments
(Showing 1 to 6 of 6) 1
#2017-06-20 13:23:18 by JohnAbbot @JohnAbbot

Well Imi, I hope you're proud of yourself. You actually had me hoping not ony that a cat might have accidentally killed a man, but wishing that if he succeeded it hadn't been him, but had been the woman who had done it instead. You've turned me from a person who is normally against violence as ever being a cure for anything, into someone wishing another person a violent sudden death. And already mapping out the legal defence of the murderess (or the cat) in my mnd. Thanks a lot!



You have us following a path that is full of unpredictable twists and turns, and that, I think, is always a strong foundation of a good read. I continue to read in baited anticipation. What's next? It's a great breather from the silly war being waged around the corner on another blog. (wasntme)


#2017-06-20 20:19:55 by paulfox1 @paulfox1

@Imi

The soil exploded outward from the center of the impact with arms reaching in every direction like the testicles of an octopus.

Wow,, mate.......you've got BALLS !(rofl)

#2017-06-21 06:27:51 by Imi5922 @Imi5922

@paulfox1

@JohnAbbot

I'm glad I made you laugh, Paul. The funny thing is that I finished this story in April and had added it a few times before submitting it to CLM. But I'd never realized I made a mistake. Oh, well, I'm getting old. It's time to get a pair of glasses. Thanks for letting me know, Paul. Now it's up to John if he's willing to change "testicles" to "tentacles." Can you do it, John? 

#2017-06-21 13:40:53 by JohnAbbot @JohnAbbot

@imi5922 @paulfox1

Imi, I apologize for not catching that error myself, and I have corrected it now.

The good news is that Paul, in spite of the fact that he obviously has his days very full from dawn to dusk trying to rewrite every written word pertaining to the history of Planet Earth, has taken the time away from that major task to read your blog carefully enough that he did catch the error.

That is high praise, indeed, of your writing talents. (clap)

#2017-06-21 13:51:27 by paulfox1 @paulfox1


@JohnAbbot

I can't take ALL the credit, John. Barry read it, caught the error, then told me about it. I took a break from dreaming what I am going to spend Melcyan's $100K on, read Imi's article, then posted accordingly.

#2017-06-21 18:56:54 by Imi5922 @Imi5922

@JohnAbbot

@paulfox1

Thank you, John. And once again, thank you, Paul, for catching that error.

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