The butterfly counts not months but moments, but has time enough.
She ran. Sweat dripping down her forehead, her pulse beating through her veins at an abnormal speed, her nerves dancing with fear, and excitement, like a sunami of butterfly's had erupted in her stomach. She turned sharply running as fast as she could down the ally, adrenaline transporting through her ears, silencing the crunch of stepped on rubbish behind her. She couldn't stop now, that would mean giving up. The police would never catch her. She wouldn't let them. She paused mocking surrender, silence. The dark shadow escaping the walls in which she was cornered, the dim evening sky hidden by the edge of rooftops.
In front of her lay the city, the bright lights, and fast cars which she dreamed of. But behind her stood the unknown, the repelling, the dangerous, of only the most true nightmares. But she wasn't scared. She was constantly telling herself that she would never again fear another soul. She turns, facing the darkness. It was not what she expected, they must have given in. And then the light, a brightness so intimidating that you somehow knew it was not real. That you knew it was bigger than life, ready to take you from yours and bring you home.
Her body slumped among the bin bags, and objects retired of their uses, so much like her mind now, her head, her heart. She was gone, she had flown without wings. She had injury without cause. Silence then, the type that deafens you and demands your mind to speak, just to remind you that your still alive. That you can still feel the beat of your heart, still hear that breath you release in relief. That kind that she never got the chance to experience.
The only movement, the butterfly as it flutters past, escaping the direction of the darkness. The only oxygen, the breath of fresh air that came from its flight.