The Butterfly Man

Put them in a place, a dark place, so their violence no longer destroys the innocent. And they did that. They built such a place and put them there, but the innocent still suffer, because that place and rehabilitation do not coincide.

I’m in that place, sitting in a room with a few others, listening to silence. For some, silence is painful, a form of torture. Such is the case for one man in the room, so he bravely peeks inside his heart and shares what he finds.

“They should’ve let me take that class,” said the man.

“The butterfly class?” the counselor asked.

“Ya,” the man replied, “that one.”

“It wouldn’t have been safe,” the counselor reminded the man.

“It’s not right,” argued the man. “Nothin’ here is right.”

“Do you remember why you’re in this class?” asked the counselor.

The man shifted his gaze toward the floor. “Because I hurt someone,” he replied.

“Hurt or killed?” asked the counselor.

“Killed,” the man answered.

Their conversation ended and silence returned to the room. Eyes went from the floor to the clock to the walls and back again. A few twiddled their thumbs, others fidgeted from left to right in their hard plastic chairs. The rest remained motionless, showing no sign of life.

Without knowing why, I grabbed a small Bible from my pocket and read it aloud. “Save me, O God, for the waters are come in unto my soul. I sink in deep mire, where there is no standing. I am come into deep waters where the floods overflow me. I am weary of my…”

Someone stood from their seat and exited the room… and another… and another. Eventually everyone vanished. Nobody wanted to hear God’s word.

A day or two passes and I found myself in that class again, wading in silence because nobody’s heart had anything to share. We know if the silence continues, the counselor will force someone to share. After all, that’s why we’re here, to share about our crimes and how they impacted the innocent.

“Have mercy upon me, O God, according to thy loving kindness: according unto the multitude of thy tender mercies blot out my transgressions,” were the words I read from my small Bible to break the silence. “Wash me thoroughly from my iniquity and cleanse me from my sin.”

I kept reading.

Someone stood and found the exit, as did the others, until the room emptied, leaving me alone to hear myself speak.

A few months passed and on my bunk is where I lie, listening to my thoughts. Then my cellie spoke.

“I tried,” he said, “I tried so hard. It’s been twenty-eight years. I thought when this day came, I would know for sure I had changed.”

“What day?” I asked.

“My release. I get released tomorrow, and after twenty-eight years of being in prison I don’t know why I killed or if I’ll do it again.”

From his bunk to the cell door, he started pacing the floor.

“Twenty-eight years,” I replied. “You must have found some answers within that time?”

“When I got here, I tried taking classes, to find answers on why I did what I did, but they wouldn’t let me.”

“Why not?” I asked.

“That’s their policy, way of doing things. You wouldn’t know ’cause you don’t have much time, so they offer rehabilitation to you right away. But guys like me, guys who won’t see freedom for a long time, were told to wait. They don’t understand what waiting does to someone in a place like this. Sure, I took some classes once I got closer to my release date, but by then, it was too late. This place had hardened me so much, nothing the counselors said helped.” He paused, paced the cell a few more times, and continued speaking. “But that one class, I would’ve liked that one, I think it would’ve helped.”

“You mean the butterfly class, the one you talked about in group?”

“Ya, that class. I wanted to breed them and watch them fly away.”

“Why wouldn’t they let you take it?”

“Because,” he said, “they think I’ll hurt the butterflies.”

Not knowing how to process that comment, I shifted the discussion toward my faith. “What about God?” I asked. “Did you ever look to Him for answers?”

He stopped pacing and fell onto his bunk. Shortly after, he started to snore.

The next day arrived and the group nobody speaks in was about to begin, so I jumped off my bunk, grabbed my Bible, and journeyed in that direction. While walking, I started thinking about rehabilitation and if I’ll find it in this place. My old cellie, the murderer who left today, he sought rehabilitation in here. Instead, he became someone the state deemed too dangerous to be around butterflies, someone who once lived with me but now lives with you.