Finally, through some will of God or force of will, Richard managed to drag himself towards the crib and lift his thrashing son into his arms, where it took all his force to hold the boy steady as he flailed about. Richard fell backwards onto his own bed and held the boy against his chest, bouncing him softly and whispering soothing words to him. “Come on, son... please be calm.... I know you miss your mother... I miss her too. I miss her too....” Richard wept softly, holding Droiture against his beating heart. “Shhh.... my son..... listen how my heart beats with both your mother's love and mine. Your mother's heart beats for you from Heaven, son. She watches over you from Paradise.” Richard whispered.

Droiture, slowly but surely, began to quiet down. His arms stopped beating a hellish tattoo into Richard's breast, and his voice began to lower. Droiture's head turned to look out the window beside the bed.

Droiture began to laugh, reaching out at the window. His high-pitched giggles, quiet and sweet, were a stark contrast to the shrieking cacophony of hellish noise he was releasing from his mouth before.

“What is it, my son? What is it you see?” Richard asked, looking out the window as well. A swarm of butterflies fluttered around the window like a crimson cloud, shimmering in the moonlight. “That's odd.” Richard commented idly to himself. “Butterflies don't usually fly around at night, do they?”

The flock of scarlet wings followed the movements of Droiture's tiny arms. He swiped his hand right and the butterflies followed suit. He threw his hands to the sky and the butterflies did a loop in midair. Richard didn't seem to notice as he finally drifted off into sleep, counting the butterflies dancing to a beautiful aerial waltz in near-silence, the uneven chirping of the crickets in the grass below being the only tune to dance to; the only beat with which to keep time.

Meanwhile, across the city, a poor young girl dressed in rags tugged on her mother's arm. She pointed up at the sky with a bony, malnourished finger. “Mama, look! Mama! Look at all the butterflies flying away! Aren't they pretty?” She said in her coarse half-voice.

“Yes, my dear. They're beautiful. They're full of joy, aren't they? Butterflies don't usually fly about at night though, do they?” The mother asked quietly.

Mother and daughter, homeless since Papa's passing and the money ran out, camped out for the night in the local church, which always accepted stragglers for the night in the name of the Lord's work. Mother and daughter shared a large room with many other downtrodden folk dressed in scraps of tattered cotton and hungry for just a bit more bread. The young daughter pointed out of the stained-glass window into the night, filled with bright red butterflies dancing for joy in the starry sky.

Others in the church basement trailed behind the girl, looking up for themselves at the butterfly-filled night.

A sister of the church bowed her head in prayer, holding a rosary between her palms and raising it towards Heaven. “Oh, Lord, you have blessed us with a sign of hope in these troubled times. Your light fills us with love and joy and gently illuminates the path before us, wherever it may lead. Please save the souls of those who dwell here tonight, and all those who see your beautiful gift dance amongst the stars. Amen.”

“Amen.” The tattered congregation echoed dutifully, many blessing themselves with bowed heads in thanks to God.

The mother and daughter smiled and clung to each other in the dimmed light of the church's basement, giving a silent prayer of their own for God to illuminate the path they were destined to walk, and to keep them safe along the journey of life. My Lord, You have already taken Alexandre into Your everlasting Heaven and delivered him from his suffering, thought the mother softly and dearly, please protect the daughter my Alexandre has left behind. Protect my daughter. This is all I ask of You, my God, and nothing more. I care little for my own fate, whether I be destined for Heaven or Hell. But please, grant my daughter even a tiny piece of Your everlasting love. She deserves so much better than this. Please protect her.

After what seemed like an eternity, the butterflies disappeared into the atmosphere like the misty ghosts of unremembered dreams, their dance complete and their duty done. They went their separate ways after that, dissipating into the first fingers of dawn reaching up over the horizon to touch the sky with their brilliant hues of orange and pink.

Richard awoke later in the morning with Droiture still slumped across his chest, breathing softly and evenly into his shoulder. The baby was fine. Richard got up and deposited Droiture back into his crib before stretching his own tired bones, hearing them snap and pop with every twist and turn. Richard checked the grandfather clock in the corner of the room for the time, and was surprised at how late it really was. Eleven o'clock in the morning already? Well, it was the first wink of sleep he'd gotten in days, and it was currently Saturday, so Richard felt somewhat entitled to sleep in late. Though when doing the math, Richard reflected, he really only got a few hours of sleep anyway. Oh well. A few hours is better than nothing. Droiture was safely in his crib, snoozing the day away.

The doorbell rang throughout the manor, and Richard winced at the sound, praying feverishly that the loud bell would not wake up Droiture. When the sound of enraged shrieking did not reach his ears after a moment, Richard relaxed. He went to go answer the door, throwing some clothes on as he went. They weren't his Sunday best, but they would do for now. He was wearing trousers; his unfortunate houseguest should be grateful for that much of him on a sleepy Saturday morning.

Even through his absurd wealth, Richard did not hire any help around the manor such as butlers or maids. He felt he didn't need them. Any rooms he wanted to keep clean, he kept clean. Any chores that needed to be done got done by his own hand. He was raised on hard work and the merits of such, and even with money figuratively coming out of his ears, he did not hire anyone to do his work for him.

It wasn't a mansion, anyway. It barely qualified as a manor. It was more like a well-furnished cabin, really. Two floors, a basement, and an attic, with one classic spiraling tower he used for keeping books, though it appeared to be some sort of defense tower like one would find on a castle someplace. Richard liked it for it's odd, unique touch. People called him an eccentric, but Richard preferred to think of himself as creative.

Richard opened the door to find a bleary-eyed young girl dressed in tattered rags. She couldn't have been any older than four or five. Six, maybe, but even that was pushing it a little. Her hair was a dull, matte shade of brown from street living and hung limp to her dirty head, but Richard surmised that if she were clean, her hair would be a brilliant shade of orange, like the sun's halo on a summer day. She looked panicked. “Excuse me, sir...” The young girl said politely, in a small voice that tried to be strong, but her panic betrayed her. “But my Mama fell over there and can't get back up. I think she might have hurt herself. No one else will help us. Will you help her?”

Richard looked behind him warily, as if debating whether it was alright to leave his sleeping infant for the time it would take to help. He decided the boy would be fine. “Take me to her.” He said simply.

“Oh, thank you, sir! Thank you! Mama! Mama, I found help!” The girl called, and almost immediately Richard could see a slumped figure on the cobblestone street in front of his estate, in the same shade of rags her daughter wore. The mother, too, was filthy and malnourished like the child. Richard helped the woman to her feet and was surprised to see a fairly young face hiding beneath the caked-on filth. She couldn't have been any older than her late twenties, even with the haggard, sleepless bags under her eyes and sallow skin hanging from her bones that living on the streets had caused her.

The woman thanked Richard profusely for his help. “No thanks needed.” Richard said modestly. “Can you walk on your leg?” He asked. The woman tried to take a step but nearly collapsed again, only being saved by Richard's arms. “Come on inside my home.” Richard offered. “It's warmer in there than out here and you're not going anywhere on that leg. I'll wrap that leg for you before you injure it any further.”

“Thank you sir. Your hospitality is a wonderful gift to us. How can we ever repay you?” The woman asked as Richard helped her up the walk and into the house.

“You can start by telling me your name.” Richard replied, smiling kindly. The young woman smiled back.

“My name is Charlotte deCherie, and this is my daughter, Annabella.” Charlotte responded.

“Well met, Charlotte. And to you, Annabella.” Richard said.

“Thank you, sir.” Annabella replied politely.

Once Charlotte's leg was bound in cloth and set up to heal, Richard began to pry a bit further. “The two of you don't carry yourselves like common street folk. Where are you from?” Richard asked. Charlotte sighed softly. Annabella cast her eyes to the floor demurely, but Richard caught a glimpse of them. Wide, and seeing, and green. A sharp pang in his chest dragged him painfully into a memory of his wife's eyes. Shaking himself out of the memory, he coughed to cover up his pain.

“My daughter and I are originally from a comfortable family living on the outskirts of the city. My husband Alexandre made his living as a lawyer, though he did not have his own practice.” Charlotte started. Annabella climbed into her mother's lap as if to comfort her, and reached her tiny, dirty little hand up to wipe away her mother's tears.

“Don't cry, Mama...” Annabella whispered. “Don't tell the story any more. It just makes you cry every time you have to tell the story.”

“This man asked where we're from, darling. After the goodness of his heart he's shown to us, it would be rude to cut the story off there.” Charlotte admonished gently.

“But Mama...” Annabella started, but Charlotte shook her head.

“No buts, sweetheart. I need to tell this man what happened to us.” Charlotte answered firmly.

Annabella sighed, but said nothing as she curled up on her mother's thin chest and looked at Richard witheringly, as if blaming him for her mother's tears. Richard looked down at the girl apologetically, not wanting to be the cause of anyone's tears ever again.

“Where was I?” Charlotte wondered aloud. “Oh, yes. My husband, the lawyer. I was pregnant with Annabella when the news came that my husband had contracted a rare form of cancer. Leukemia, they called it. After spending all the money we had on doctors from around the world to try and save his life, ultimately it was too late. Alexandre died, and I was left to give birth alone; to raise my daughter alone. We had nothing after Alexandre died, and soon the banks took our home and all our possessions. My daughter has known nothing of life but poverty and sadness.” Charlotte finished the story biting back tears. “I know it sounds like your average sob story from a beggar, and I have no proof that what I say is truth, for all my proof was taken from me along with my home and my livelihood.”

Richard was silent as he let the information sink into his swirling head. His thoughts raced as he tried to work out a pattern to the words just said to him. The air in the room was tense as Richard's silence created a strange dark void in the universe where conversation should have been, and the muteness hung thickly around the eardrums like one was swimming in a sea of noiselessness.

Suddenly the silence was broken apart by the soft sound of crying from upstairs. “Excuse me.” Richard said, “That's my infant son. Let me go get him.” Richard left the room. “I'll be right back.”

Richard reached Droiture's crib and lifted the boy from within it. “Shush, boy, shush. We have company, don't you understand? Quiet now. Quiet.” Richard calmed the boy down as best as he could before carrying him back down the stairs and into the room where he had set up Charlotte's leg. Annabella was gone from the room, and Richard looked quizzically at Charlotte.

“Annabella went off in search of a restroom. I told her to wait to ask for directions, but she's only four.” Charlotte explained.

“Ah. Well, we have a few scattered about, so she'll do alright.”

“Is that your son?” Charlotte asked, gesturing to the sleeping dark-haired infant.

“Why, yes, he is. He's only eight months old. Doesn't look a thing like me, does he? No, he got all his looks from his mother, bless her soul.” Richard said. “He got my stubborn streak in him, though. Three nights and counting he's kept me up with his wailing. I just don't have a clue what he wants when he has a fit in the middle of the night.”

“He probably misses his mother. From your 'bless her soul' remark, can I safely assume she's passed away?” Charlotte ventured tentatively, hands folded in her lap in silent prayer.

Richard looked at his son with a pang of sorrow. “...Yes. My dear wife died in childbirth. It's probably just as well; my family hated her and she'd probably be miserable with my old hag of a mother banging down the door to shriek at her.” Richard rambled.

Charlotte looked down at the infant looking around from Richard's grip with almond-shaped, slanted green eyes that viewed the world with childlike curiosity and an odd air of loneliness, as if the babe was aware he was the odd one out in the room.

“...Because she was....Oriental, I'm venturing from the look of the child?”

Richard sat beside Charlotte on the sofa, giving her room to leave her leg set up where it was. “Japanese, to be precise. As God as my witness, I loved that woman.” He sighed. “But, she's gone now, and Droiture is all I have left of her.” Richard ran his fingers through Droiture's fine hair softly, and the baby almost purred as he shifted his head into his father's hand lovingly.

“Be careful down the path of memories, good sir.” Charlotte warned. “For I know all too well the troubles that can come when one dwells on what one had before.”

“I know that, woman. I'm not daft.” Richard snapped more harshly than he'd meant to. “I'm sorry; that was rude.” He apologized, expression softening. “It's just that I... suppose I don't care whether troubles come my way or not. My Chouko's a saint now, that is, assuming God would give a foul-mouthed, headstrong woman like her a sainthood.” Richard had to chuckle despite himself. “But she was mine, until death went and did us part.” Richard half-joked.

“Death has a way of doing that. Oh, there you are, Annabella. Where did you wander off to? I thought you were looking for a restroom.” Charlotte exclaimed.

“I was, Mama. But I wanted to get clean, too.” Annabella said, showing her now-porcelain skin, lightly tanned from a life outdoors but very pretty. Her hair was still dirty, but Richard supposed she couldn't do much about that without permission and some form of adult supervision.

“I hope you didn't leave a mess all over this nice man's restroom.” Charlotte said in a classically parental tone. “That would be very rude.”

“I didn't, Mama! I promise. I cleaned up any mess I made and put things back where I found them.” Annabella answered honestly. “Oh, wow, is that a baby? Can I see?” Annabella asked excitedly, going up to Richard. She stretched herself up onto her toes, leaning on Richard's knee to get a better look, as a child was opt to do.

Richard smiled and knelt down to the girl's level. Droiture's green eyes leveled on her own eyes, the same bright beryl gems set into their sockets. He blinked and blew a spit bubble. Annabella giggled. “Mama, his eyes are kinda little.” She blurted. “Can he even see good?”

“That's rude, Annabella.” Charlotte chastised.

“She meant no harm, I'm sure.” Richard retorted. “After all, how many Orientals does a young girl see on the streets of France? She's stating her confusion, not trying to be insulting.” Richard smiled back down at the girl. “He can see just fine.” He addressed her. “He just looks a little different.”

“I saw a person with little eyes like his in a picture book once, but in the picture book the person's skin was colored yellow. How come the baby's skin is grey? He looks kinda... cold. Is he warm enough? Does he want a blanket? He can have my sweater if he's cold. ” Annabella said, starting to pull off the threadbare, patch-covered sweater that barely covered her own little skinny body. Richard let out a snort of amusement and put his hand lightly on hers to stall her motions.

“Well, Droiture's a very special baby. He's perfectly warm, I assure you. I suppose he's pale because he's meant to be. Who knows how God works?” Richard replied.

“Yeah, I guess that makes sense. But then, God can be kind of mean sometimes, like when Mama said He took Papa away.” Annabella said. “So I don't know if I want to pray to a God who takes people's Papas away.”

“Well, that's true.” Richard said, sitting down on the floor with Droiture on one knee and dragging Annabella onto the other. “God can be kind of cruel, in His own way. But sometimes God has to be. Sometimes we humans can be a little silly, and we don't really understand how we're meant to do things. So sometimes God has to be a little mean or do things in mean spirit, just to knock some sense into us. Do you remember the story of Moses and the Ark?” Richard asked.

Charlotte watched with an odd fascination as this man spoke to her daughter so kindly, so sweetly, as if he were her very own father, though he hadn't even known who she was an hour ago. Charlotte didn't know how much the world around someone can change in an hour. Charlotte didn't know how much a single hour could take someone's life and tear it to shreds. Charlotte didn't know that a single hour was all it took to drive Richard to the edge of death and back, and still he stood.

Charlotte watched as Richard's infant son interacted with her daughter. Droiture reached one bony hand out-- shouldn't babies be fatter than that? Especially disgustingly wealthy ones? Charlotte wondered idly, and Annabella reached to take Droiture's hand in her own.

“Even if he has little eyes and funny skin, he's still got all the same insides as me, right, mister? He's got a heart and a tummy and bones and stuff?” Annabella asked.

“That's right. He's got all the same things on the inside. He's a person, just like me or you.” Richard explained.

“If he's got the same insides as me, then he's just like me and so it doesn't matter what he looks like on the outside. Hey mister, did you see the butterfly parade last night? It was super-late, but I was awake because it's really hard to fall asleep when old lady nuns are praying real loud.”

“Annabella!” Charlotte hissed.

“Well, it is. You were awake too, Mama. They can pray all they want, Mama. That's what they want to do and that's okay to me but don't pretend you were sleeping, 'cause I know you weren't.” Annabella pouted and stuck her little pink tongue out when her mother hissed her name in admonishment.

Richard chuckled. He did not laugh, for he could not laugh anymore. But a chuckle, well, that he could manage.

“Yes, I did see the butterflies in the sky last night. They seemed to be hovering just outside my window.” Richard admitted.

“They were coming this way from the church window. I remembered where they were going.”

“Annabella, please shush now.” Charlotte said warningly.

“Mama, you always said it's bad to lie.” Annabella protested.

“Being quiet is not the same as lying.” Charlotte hissed.

“Mama....” Annabella mumbled.

“It's alright by me, whatever she has to say.” Richard said.

“See, Mama? See? Mister-Man says it's okay.”

“My name is Richard, dear. You can call me that, if you like.” Richard said. “And my son's name is Droiture.”

“Mister Richard says it's okay. So I'm gonna say it. I remembered which way the butterflies were going, and I led Mama this way because we were gonna try and find some food or someplace to live while we try to find a real home like the one Mama talked about when Papa was still alive but I wasn't born yet. I didn't make Mama fall, but Mama fell anyway. Must'a tripped on a rock or something. I didn't see.” --Please be quiet, Annabella, we're homeless, but not pathetic.-- Charlotte wanted to say, but kept her mouth closed. “I knocked on all the houses on the street, but nobody would help. They called me a 'urchin' and shut their doors on me. One person threw a couple coins at me, like I was a clown or somethin'. Only you helped us, Mister Richard. How come you helped us, but everyone else turned us away?”

Richard chewed his lip while he thought of an answer. Why had he rescued this woman from the street, a woman he'd never met, and her young daughter? What reason did he have to care for them? He had his own life to worry about. His own problems and his own tribulations. What significance were these two strangers to his life? But for whatever reason, he did, and he didn't regret it. Perhaps he was just lonely and in need of some companionship. Maybe he sensed that same loneliness in the girl. Maybe he was just in need of something to do, something to entertain himself for a while, someone to talk to who could actually talk to him back instead of staring at him mutely with those haunting emerald eyes that wrenched his soul with every glance.

“Maybe it was just fate, eh girl? Who knows how God works?”

Annabella's lips quirked into a half-smile. “Yeah...” She mumbled.

“Oh, but you don't believe in a God who takes people's Papas away, do you?” Richard teased.

“No.... but I think I believe in the one who saves people's Mamas.” Annabella said softly, leaning her head against Richard's chest. Charlotte sniffed and turned her head, as to not let her daughter see her cry. “'Cause yeah,” Annabella went on to say, muffled slightly by Richard's shirt, “Maybe the God who took Papa away and the God who saved Mama are the same God, or maybe they're two totally different Gods who are both just poking around in my life at the same time. Does it really matter? Maybe I don't have a Papa anymore, but I never knew him. I don't even know what he looks like. So for all I know, God is my Papa, and maybe God-Papa just had to go be someone else's God-Papa for a while. Maybe the other kid that God-Papa left for needed Him more than I did. But he left Mama behind, and so I gotta take care of Mama while I can.”

Charlotte wept from her place on the sofa. Richard smiled. “That is the most admirable attitude I've ever seen in a girl so young.” he said adoringly, stroking Annabella's hair softly. “But you don't have to worry anymore. As long as I walk this Earth, neither you nor your mother will ever want for anything again.”

Richard's logical self and emotional self were battling a bloody war inside him. His logical self told him to kick these strangers out and let them fend for themselves, but his emotional self knew what it was like to be hungry and in want of affection and a safe place to take shelter for the night.

“Are you allowing us to stay here, good sir?” Charlotte finally asked after a moment of silence. “I wouldn't wish to impose--”

“You would not be imposing upon me. It is just myself and my son here. My wife is dead, I have no servants in my employ nor do I have any close family. Honestly, it benefits me as well; I was going mad here without someone to talk to. Droiture's my son and I love him, but he's not even a year old yet and I can't exactly carry on a conversation with him, can I?” Richard said. “Besides, from what I've heard, you don't exactly have any place else to go. Why wouldn't I open my doors to you?”

“We have no possessions or money and nothing with which to repay you for your kindness.” Charlotte protested. “We would simply be a burden--”

“Who said I was seeking a repayment? I certainly didn't. Your companionship, your friendship, is all I need. Honestly, if it makes you feel better, you can chalk it up to a wealthy eccentric doing strange things on some stupid impulse. But please, stay here. I have the room.” Richard pleaded softly, and put his squirming son down on the floor to play with Annabella. “Plus, it looks like my son has taken a liking to your daughter. I think companionship will benefit them as well.”

Charlotte nodded slowly. “....Yes. I accept your offer. We will stay here.” Charlotte put out her dirty, bony hand, and Richard took it without hesitation, shaking her hand firmly in a gesture of trust and goodwill. Charlotte laughed a little. “It's funny. An hour ago, you had no idea who we were or even that we existed, and now you've gained two new roommates.”

“My dear, you'd be surprised how much your life can change in a single hour.” Richard replied, looking sideways at her with a mysterious, enigmatic expression Charlotte couldn't make out. His eyes held all the sadness in the world behind a thin, candy-coated chocolate shell of hope. His lips were quirked in a bittersweet sort of smile. A sardonic smile. A dark smile. But a sincere smile.

but i guess the only thing that actually legitimizes a mental illness is suicidal thoughts and actions or cutting

since i do neither of those things i don't have a mental illness and i need to "get over it and stop worrying"

mental illness? nope doesn't exist

something wrong with your brain that you can't control? bullshit suck it up that's not an excuse stop acting like a baby