The Butterfly Murderer

There was no logic to it, no logic at all. It was logic less. But it was real, it was here; there may have been no logic but it didn't mean it wasn't happening. Caterpillars crept across the carpet in an arrowhead formation. Twenty green hairy caterpillars, arching and stretching in unison like a synchronised swimming team.
Connor was mesmerised by these two-inch-long creatures as they continued their journey from God knows where to God knows where. The yellow dots on their coats blurring as the bodies curved and straightened, curved and straightened. Connor could never remember seeing more than one caterpillar before; he’d always thought they were anti-social creatures not hunters in packs. But here they were, a regiment of wannabe butterflies marching into battle.
Connor scratched his stubbly chin, and wondered where the army was going, and what they hoped to find at the other side of the living room. Were they looking for an escape into the wide open world, for fresh air or did they think Connor's green jacket was a bush full of leaves, a feast fit for admirals? They’d be sorely disappointed when they got there to find it was just a cotton and polyester coat. Maybe they were searching for a chrysalis worthy spot so they could do a mass transformation.
“I made you a cup of tea,” Holly said as she came into the room smiling and holding two mugs.

“Watch out!” Connor yelled, but it was too late. Holly’s bare feet had landed right in the middle of the formation taking out eight or nine of the troops in one go. Those that were not crushed were soon writing in pain as hot tea rained down on the carpet scolding the hairy green creatures.
Holly was screaming, the squelch of the insects on skin causing her stomach to churn. She waved her hands in the air like she was a woman overboard or maybe she was trying out for the synchronised swimming team. Meanwhile Connor felt a strange sadness at the realisation that the woman he loved was a butterfly murderer.