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Summary
“I am what was done to Michael Shelley.” It says, shrinking from a mother’s intense eye. Then it hunches inward, sinking to the muddy grass so it may pull its skinny legs to its hollow chest. Michael wishes she would stop looking at it that way.
It wants to tell this man it has no mother, that the son she is looking for is dead, but the person it was born from howls inside its head until Michael cannot bring itself to tell the truth. To become a butterfly, a caterpillar weaves itself a cozy little cocoon to sleep in before its entire body disintegrates and becomes caterpillar soup until that primordial goo shapes itself into a butterfly. The butterfly remembers being a caterpillar, it knows due north and the hand that raised it, but it is not a caterpillar.
Michael feels like it is a misshapen insect, a big ugly cuckoo bird that thinks it's a sparrow, a barn cat raised by dogs so it tries to bark and only hisses.
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Michael Shelley goes inside of the-door-that-should-not-be-there, what comes home is something else.