About me:
I died. That's not unusual, but I died by the shoe of a fat woman. I was minding my own business one bright sunny Saturday afternoon (aren't they all bright and sunny in controlled habitats?) resting on the wet walkway. I posed for a few photographs, twittled my antennae a bit and went about my business.

Moments later the door opened. I saw a shoe walking toward me. She wasn't paying attention. I tried to move, I called for help. Before I was able to fathom the severity of the situation the shade closed in on my world. The eclipse was upon me. With the darkness came a great crushing weight on my left side.

The darkness went away.

I twitched and fluttered, one wing worked the other held me back. My head was spining; I couldn't move.

"Everyone stop," I heard the woman yell. "Everyone be careful, there's a dying butterfly here, no one step on him." Calling for help she used her human wingspan to stop anyone from coming near me.

"Is help coming?" I heard her yell to her husband. "Is anyone coming? He's hurt! Someone must have stepped on him. The poor thing."

I slipped in and out of consciousness until finally I had taken my last breath. My lifeless body lay on the rocks. I seemed to hover; it was a rather uneasy feeling. For nearly an hour I looked down while visitors avoided my dead corpse. There was beauty in my stillness. It was there, on the same rocks on which I liked to bask after a small drink or two, that the beauty of the Zebra Swallowtail acted as a real life science lesson for every child that walked by.

And it was in that same spot, on her way out of the habitat, that the fat woman ignored me once again and squashed my head with her heel as thought about the money she'd spend in the giftshop. Ironically the same money that she would spend ensuring a safe living butterfly habitat for all the world to enjoy.