Kira’s Bio:

Kira Plummer is the author of many things, most of which have never seen the light of day. She has managed to publish a few articles in newspapers and trade journals, and she’s overjoyed to have finally had some success in fiction. She slogged her way through a bachelor’s degree in English, had tons of fun getting her master’s degree in the same subject, and now works in corporate communications for a defense contractor. She lives in northern Virginia and doesn’t know what she’d do without her journal, Starbucks, HBO, books by Kazuo Ishiguro, long runs, and most especially her wonderful husband, amazing son, and network of supportive family and friends.

Metamorphosis

By Kira Plummer

 

A newly-hatched caterpillar has one purpose, and that’s to eat. So I swallow it all—his yelling, her screams; his fists, her blood. I’m five when he sends her to the hospital, eight when he kills her, and ten when he starts in on me. So I take little bites of each scene, nibbling and nibbling until I’ve digested all of it and it feeds me from the inside out. 

The growing caterpillar will molt five times, so I drop one skin when I steal the matches from the kitchen cabinet, a second when I siphon gasoline from the car, a third when I set the date, a fourth when I plan the time. A fifth when I decide to do it. 

The chrysalis stage is the most critical, when the larva transforms to an adult. Wings form, antennae blossom. So I stitch my mouth up, sew myself into a cocoon—the sullen teenager’s guise a perfect foil. Through my cloak, on the chosen day, I watch him sink into sleep in the recliner, dozing against the blare of college football. 

It takes several hours for a butterfly’s wings to dry, and during this time they’re vulnerable to predators. Some make noise to scare away enemies, so I lock the door to my pink-and-white girl’s room and play music for a while, in case he wakes up. 

Learning to fly is easy, really. I circle the chair twice, the fumes making my eyes water. I pull the matches through their paper cover, letting the book drop as it ignites, not bothering to look back as the carpet, the chair and its occupant erupt into flames.

I walk out the door, the heat at my back, and take flight.

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