Here again?
 
I take a look around my makeshift prison, noticing with little surprise that it’s the same as always. The ground is smooth and cold beneath my bare feet and I can pick up the familiar vibrating drum beat, an irregular rhythm under my toes.  All around me is pitch black nothingness, the only light coming from a source that seems so far away, so out of reach.  Or maybe it’s right next to me and I just can’t reach it.  Either way, it takes some time for my eyes to adjust to the gloom, and I spend that time standing perfectly still, knowing too well what is in this cage with me.
 
As my vision starts returning, my irises dilating to take in as much of the distant light as possible, I can make out more of my surroundings.  Surrounding me are metal bars extending from the floor in a square, rising up to a height just above my head before meeting with a row of horizontal bars, sealing my cage.  Walking up to one side of the small square I reach my hands out, running them down the wrought iron bars, the ones that I know are meant to be black, even in a place of no colour.
 
I can’t help but smile.  As far as metaphors go, my brain has really dropped the ball on this one.  Me, trapped in a cage of oh so familiar wrought iron bars – subtle, brain, subtle.  And if I turn around and look…ah yes there it is.  In one of the corners is the source of the trembling beneath my feet.  A heart, covered in scars and beating at irregular intervals, each movement of the muscle spurting out a thin arc of blood from various tubes in its surface.  Looking down at the floor I can see the pool of blood spreading out from it, sliding its way across the floor towards where I stand.
 
Taking a step backwards I turn around, gripping the iron bars once again and giving them a shake.  They don’t budge at all, no surprise there.  Shrugging, I sit down in the corner of my prison with my back to the mysterious light source, watching the blood creep towards me, closer and closer…
 
---------------
 
‘Red.’
 
Casting my gaze around until I find a tin of paint with a red label on it, I pick it up and take it over to Rin, who stares at the label and then into the top of the can, finally nodding.
 
‘Pour some in there.’  She says, nodding to indicate the paint mixing tray next to her.
 
As I tip the can up the liquid inside runs out, a thick rich red river splashes into the plastic beneath it.  And onto the girl sitting beside it.
 
‘You got red on me.’ She states.
 
‘Uh…yeah.  Sorry.’
 
‘It doesn’t matter.  Plain white shirts are boring anyway.  I like red.  Maybe I should paint all my clothes red.’
 
‘I don’t think you should do that Rin.’
 
‘You’re right, they would go all stiff and crispy and uncomfortable.  And Emi would scold me again, she hates cleaning my paint covered clothes.’
 
Able to think of no response to that I simply shrug, following Rin’s instructions of what paints she needs, pouring them carefully into the various trays and pots arrayed around her.
 
 
Sitting back, it takes me a few moments to realise that I can no longer hear the sound of her brush sweeping along the paper in front of her, or of a stick held deftly between toes mixing paints together.  Raising my eyes to Rin, I notice her staring out of the open window, the paintbrush in her foot dangly idly at her side, dripping paint onto the floor of the room.
 
‘Rin, what are y-‘
 
‘Shhh.’ she says in a voice no more than a whisper, keeping her eyes glued on the window.
 
Standing up I move behind her chair and let my gaze follow her own, settling on a small form resting on the windowsill.  The sight almost takes my breath away, the intricate patterns on the small wings seeming impossibly bright for nature to have created.
 
‘Quick Hisao, get all the colours on that butterfly!’ She says, her voice slipping in an uncharacteristic display of emotion.
 
As I rush about collecting the necessary paints I can see Rin carefully remove the half-finished painting from the easel in front of her, replacing it with a blank sheet.
 
Casting a critical eye over the cans I’ve brought to her she nods, giving instructions in a hushed voice while her short arms wave excitedly back and forth.  I don’t think I’ve ever seen her this animated before.
 
As she paints her tongue sticks out between her lips, her eyebrows furrowing in concentration above her eyes, flickering back and forth between the paper in front of her and the small creature still on the windowsill, having barely moved since we first saw it.
 
‘Do you like butterflies, Rin?’  I ask her when she finally lifts her brush from the paper, turning to choose a new colour.
 
‘Yes.  I wish I were a butterfly.’
 
‘Why?’
 
‘I could fly, and I would look pretty.  People like butterflies, don’t they?’ she asks, a sad look coming over her face.