When he caught me, I didn’t think he’d pull me apart. Though most fairies are never caught by humans. My arms sit in separate jars, so I don’t try any magic. My legs separated too. I’m not sure the point of that. It’s not as if I can change all this with my toes. 

My wings flutter in a jar next to one another, bumping into the glass as they try to reunite. They are beautiful to watch in their optimistic shimmering. When the sun hits the jar just right, iridescent sparkles cascade onto the cottage floor. I look forward to it—a small reminder of the mushroom knoll of the woods I come from.

His large stubby finger taps the glass occasionally. I roll my eyes in response. He can’t hear me when I yell at him, and he’s covered the jar in protective oils, so there’s no use in trying to curse him. 

Fairies aren’t meant to be trapped. Let alone like this. Pulled to pieces with no hope of magical interference. Someday, he’ll regret this. Someday, when I find my relief from this prison, he will pay. 

For now, I watch endlessly as he cooks his dinners, studies his spell books, and sleeps in the corner of his cottage. 

I will not lose hope. Ever. I will put him in a jar someday. 

With an earthworm. Or a stinky beetle.

I’ll carry him around in my pocket.