Florence opened the door to her bedroom, setting her backpack down on the floor next to it without looking.  She hadn't taken off her shoes on the porch, because she really didn't want anyone to steal them; her favorite black platform boots with glittery laces.  They gave her an extra inch and a half of height so if a tall person took them without reason she would have to kill them.  That might make her parents a little upset.  

  Now those boots thumped softly on the dark blue carpet of her bedroom floor.  They stopped at the bed, and suddenly lifted off into the air as she flopped dramatically onto her quilted bedspread with a groan.

  I want noodles.  

  With another groan she slid, liquid-like, back down to the floor, bumping her knees.  She rocked onto her heels and rose to her feet in one fluid motion.  She slipped out the door, barely opening it wide enough to get by.  Her boots thumped louder on the wood floors in the hall, and they thudded loudly on the way down the stairs.  Her mother was leaning her backside against the counter in the kitchen, sipping what appeared to be coffee but Florence was sure it was probably spiked with nasty-smelling alcohol.

  Susan was in her late thirties, with blonde hair that was starting to look weathered from living in a house with Florence.  She had big grey sweatpants on, the drawstring cinched loosely around her hips. Her long hair spilled over in front of her soft pajama shirt.  It was only four in the afternoon, but she had already dressed for being lazy after a long day of being a morning news anchor.  She hadn't washed her makeup off though, which contrasted with the laid-back look of her outfit. 

  She looked up from her phone as Florence stepped into the kitchen.  "Florence..." she sighed. "Boots. Off.  They can hear you in Australia."

  Florence rolled her eyes as subtly as she could.  "No, the Australians are deaf from your snoring.  Is there any noodles left?"

  "Are there any noodles left.  Take them off before I do it for you."

  "So we have noodles?"  Florence knew she was pushing buttons, but she wanted her noodles and didn't care if the Australians heard her clumping around.  It was her own house, and they were in Australia.  

  She checked the cabinet above the microwave; there was one packet of ramen sitting next to a box of macaroni elbows.  "Aha, my precious." she murmured to herself.  

  "Was that back talking?" uh-oh, she had her nearing-mad-mom voice on.  

  "No, I'm glad to see there is ramen."  She took a bowl from the dishwasher.  It had a dry noodle stuck to the inside.  "Ugh, did the dishwasher not get run last night?"

  Upon hearing no reply, she stuck the dirty bowl back in the dishwasher and pulled a clean one from the cabinet.  Adding water to the bowl took forever, though she only needed like half a cup.  "Why do we have no water pressure?"  She asked.  Her voice sounded whiny even to her own ears.

  He mother glanced up from her phone's bright blue screen.  Without really looking, she made a noncommittal noise and looked back down.

  Florence rolled her eyes again.  The microwave hummed loudly; the two vases sitting on top it, currently empty of flowers, rattled and clinked against each other.  It beeped rapidly to signal the end of two minutes.  She stirred the noodles aggressively, barely keeping the water from sloshing over the sides of the porcelain bowl.  Another two minutes later and she was carrying the bowl up to her room, a potholder protecting her fingers from the scorching bottom.  

  Just as she reached the first stair, her mother said, "Take the boots off Florence.  I mean it."  But her voice sounded more tired and weary than angry.  

  "Sure," Florence gave in.  Not much point in persisting, and walking in her boots inside was going to make her carpet dirty. "As soon as I can set the bowl down in my room."

  Once the bowl of ramen was set safely on her desk, she removed her boots.  The laces took a while to loosen all the way down, but she didn't  mind.  It left more time for the noodles to cool from lava to merely boiling.  

  Her purple backpack, covered in black sharpie doodles, was aggressively shaken over the bed to disgorge it's contents.  A notebook, a drawing book, a bulging pencil bag, a half-empty bottle of Snapple, lots of candy and snack bar wrappers, and a sheaf of homework landed on the blanket in a jumbled heap.  The books -- one for school, the other for arting -- were stacked neatly near the pillows.  Florence put the pencil bag on top of them.  All the wrappers and other trash were swept into the small trash bin that lived under the desk, next to her stack of canvases leaning against the wall.  The homework she didn't bother to uncrumple, just tossing it to her desk.  Some of the papers fluttered away, down to the floor, like injured butterflies.  The Snapple was dumped into her water bottle with the partially melted ice and small splash of water.

  With butterflies on the brain, she threw her bag into the closet and opened the drawing book.  Taking a colored pencil from the pencil bag, she sketched out a butterfly; it had heavily stylized wings, with intricate mandala patterns and long flowing tails.  Opting out of a background, she began the line art.  

  Time both slowed and sped by, leaving Florence with her mandala wings and curling antennae.  The steam from the bowl of noodles on her desk slowly drifted off, leaving less and less heat behind.  But before it could become lukewarm and gross, she pulled herself out of the comfortable position leaning back on her pillows and moved her operation to the desk, where she could enjoy her ramen and continue drawing.

  As the butterfly's details sharpened and resolved from little blurry sketch lines into clear defining strokes from a pen, Florence's mind wandered.  What if I went and tried to sell my art at school?  She'd be arrested for sure by the Guardians.  Then Mom would go to prison and I would go to juvie, and we would both never see each other again... She ate a forkful of noodles.  They were almost too cold for her liking.

  The butterfly was looking quite stunning on its page, graceful and elegant.  I think you need some color.  But pencils or watercolor?  Both.  She picked out some Prismacolors and gave the wings' segments stained-glass color-- pastels and transparent hues throughout the color spectrum.  Glittery shimmers followed the trailing tails of the wing-tips.  

  Now the ramen was too cold for her liking.  Ughghghgh.  She set the periwinkle pencil down and arched her back, several vertebrates popping.  She lifted the bowl off the paint-smeared desk and slipped out of her room.  

  Down in the kitchen, Susan was no longer leaning on the counter watching her phone, but was instead in the adjacent living room watching some show with lots of girlish screams and car-tire squealing. 

  The microwave sounded loud and droning as it re-warmed the room-temperature broth.  When the vases on top continued to clink even after Florence readjusted them a few times she had to control an outburst of sudden anger.  It caught her off guard; they were just vases, there was no reason to be so mad.  She managed to not destroy anything nearby except a hangnail on her pinky, until the microwave beeped the end of one minute.  Still using the potholder to carry it, she took the bowl back upstairs.

  The butterfly, which had looked so beautiful and well-drawn just a minute before, now looked sloppy and clumsily created.  The colors clashed, the lines were shaky, and the glittery trails that had seemed so magical just looked like scribbles of color behind a butterfly drawn by a kindergartner.

  Florence hated it.  She hated how it looked, how that piece of paper felt, how long it had taken her-- so long her delicious ramen had to be reheated.

  She stood frozen in front of her desk, staring down at her project.  She hadn't even set the bowl down. Now she set it down, slowly, felling struck with revulsion at the drawing.  

  Then she ripped the page out.  She yanked it from the threads that bound it to the spine and crumpled it, then unfolded it and slapped it on the desk.  She snatched a paint marker from her pencil bag-- a black one.  The paint marker spewed ink over the paper like blood from a slit throat.  It spread, soaking into the page, dribbling into the creases and folds to blot away the once majestic butterfly from history.  She viciously scribbled across it, her teeth bared at the disgrace she had wrought.  

  In a very short time, the butterfly, which had indeed been graceful and full of magic before, was obliterated.  

                                                                           🎨\🦋/🎶