Tabora and the Plight of a Black Butterfly

In the suburban town of Suitland, Maryland, just outside Washington, D.C, it was a still morning. Barely pre-dawn and seemingly pristine, however, not everyone was nestled in. Each perfectly synchronized stop light switched to green and appeared as one long linear blur in corners of Sara's eyes. Her hands choked the steering wheel at nine and twelve o'clock positions. She streaked past one intersection after the other, and had but one goal: to get back into the apartment before Tabora discovered she'd left. She slowed the car gingerly when she reached the modest, multi-level apartment building where they lived. She then peered up through the windshield towards their second story bedroom window. "Yes," she whispered. . . . Quiet, and shrouded in darkness. The bedroom door was partially open. Inside, Tabora lay helplessly on her back. It was anyone's guess as to how long the calm, serene state would preside over the morning. Her head twitched. In a deep, coma-like state, yet far from dormant; her entire body flinched. Past issues in her life often wreaked-havoc on her nights, causing her to endure toiling experiences. Suddenly, her head jerked violently from side to side. Yet her eyes remained locked in the closed position. She perspired profusely between the silk sheets that enveloped her naked, shivering body. Her heart raced out of control. "No. Stop, where are you taking me," she cringed? Poised to scream, but there was no sound. Both arms lay extended along her sides. Her trembling, tightly closed fists clung to bed covers and, in spasm-like motions, jerked upward.