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THE BUTTERFLY

I sit in Dr. Julia’s office with my nerves twisting in my stomach, as I nervously bite my nails. The clock ticks on, but it feels like time is dragging, stretching out every second. I feel like a nun awaiting confession, trembling with guilt, desperately hoping for absolution.

My hairs stand on end, as I wait for her to speak. They should play music, or something to put people at ease. People like me. People with issues, and hate expressing their feelings without reliving the darkness inside of them. But the antique clock at the other end of her sterile office reminds me my time here is limited. If I don’t speak up, then my session will end and I will have to wait a week, which feels like a death sentence.

“Hazel, maybe you would be more comfortable lying down,” Dr. Julia smiles, as her head spins from the clock to me.

Time.

Something I’ve had to get used to once again, now I have a job. When I was at the asylum, there was no sense of time. I never had a watch, or anything to tell me if it was night or day, apart from the window outside of my room.

“Yes,” I gasp.

When I registered at the clinic, I was initially assigned to Dr. Samuel Briggs as my therapist. However, as I was filling out the forms, Dr. Julia walked by, and without hesitation, I asked to see her instead of him. The reason? She looks just like Aunt Stephanie—she could be her twin sister. I know this shouldn't be the reason I chose her as my therapist, but for some reason, the idea of my aunt somehow redeeming herself for what she put me through gives me a strange sense of comfort.

Maybe she really did groom me after all.

Dr. Julia’s face has a gentle smile which puts me at ease. She has the same warm, welcoming eyes, her hair is neatly styled. suit, but her posture and demeanor are relaxed.

I spin my head to face the red lounge in the corner of the room, which has plush cushions. I did lay on it once out of the fifty three sessions we’ve had and fell asleep. It’s so comfortable that Dr. Julia had to wake me up.

Somehow, I don’t feel so lonely when I come here, because in some twisted way, it’s as if I have a friend—even if she is being paid by the hour.

Then, my mind flashes back to the hero from yesterday in the café—the one who saved me. The one who made me think about touching myself the way I did last night. Before, anything sexual felt perverse. I shouldn’t have needs after what I’ve been through, nor desires. Yet I have love stories by the side of my bed, and I picture myself being rescued by a man.

A hero who will sweep me off my feet and make everything bad feel alright. Isn’t that what little girls’ dreams are built on? Fairy Tales?

I lift myself off the chair facing her, and adjust my skirt. It’s the first time I’ve made an effort with my appearance, by applying make-up, putting my dark hair in a bun and I even went so far to buy red lipstick to match the red polish in which I painted my nails. I feel pretty, something I never felt was possible until my first session.

I take a deep breath and try to calm my mind as I head to the lounge. I’ve been working on losing weight too, because the last time I was lying down, I felt as if I filled the lounge.

“I’ve noticed you’ve lost weight. I hope you don’t mind me mentioning it,” Dr. Julia says as I lie down.

Her noticing the fifteen pounds I’ve lost this month from not eating cakes baked in the diner, makes me feel lighter. I’ve started a new hobby, baking but with low-fat ingredients, sometimes I do it to keep myself occupied. I do love baking, but my one weakness used to be baking and eating too many brownies.

Not anymore.

“Yes, I’ve lost fifteen pounds.” I proudly tell her as I stiffly sit on the velvet lounge, its plush arm presses in like a padded wall. My stomach coils as I pass her and smell the one thing I try to avoid, like the plague. Lavender. It always provokes a memory, one I try to keep hidden, but at times it reaches the surface. At times her office reeks of lavender, just like the blankets on the bed in the room.

“How does it make you feel?”

This is how our session begins, when she catches me off guard. My heels click together, as I continue to explain to her about my weight loss journey whilst enjoying the lounge.

“I read a book, which tells us that we are how we feel. And there is no magic formula to losing weight, but we should focus on what we want to be, not on how we are. So, if you’re fifty pounds overweight then you should focus on being fifty pounds lighter. I've been working on my mindset,” I say as I look up admiring the ceiling.

She nods her head, as I spin to face her. Then my eyes revert back to the ceiling, because it's as if they’re trying to hypnotize me as I admire the Victorian ceiling rose. It has a flower on the outside, and stems away, my mind wonders how far the stems could extend.

“I’m glad you took my advice while trying to change your mindset.”

I close my eyes, as I think about what she told me in our last session, the idea that the mind can play tricks on us and make us believe things which aren’t true.

“Yes. But now I can look in the mirror and think I look nice. Pretty even. Something I never thought was possible.”

“You’ve always been pretty.”

Really?

I spin my head to see her smiling at me, reassuring me, the same way Aunt Stephanie used to do. Aunt Stephanie probably smiled at me the same way, because she was too busy thinking about how much money she could make from selling my body.

“You have lovely emerald eyes which light up your whole face.”

I’ve been complimented about my eyes many times, because my hair is dark now, but my natural color is red. My eyes light up my face, but when you’ve lived in darkness for so long. It’s hard to accept anything other than an ulterior motive.

But maybe this is what my hero sees in me. My eyes. I never saw his face, it was hidden by a mask, but I imagine him to look like Jamie from Outlander or Chris Hemsworth. Either way, I know the man behind the mask isn’t one to be messed with, and that makes him even more appealing in my eyes.

“And how are you sleeping?”

It’s as if that one sentence changes the mood of the room as I clench my fists and my eyes are wide open, as they do at night. I become too scared to close my eyes at times, in case my nightmares become my reality all over again.

“Meditation is a form of quieting the mind, and through it, you can believe whatever you want to believe including your real reality,” I recite a couple of lines from the book, as if I am reading it out loud to her.

“So, this helps you conquer your fears, by pretending that your reality isn’t real?” She asks.

I take a deep breath as I try to remember the many books I’ve read on the subject, but the doctor said with the number of times I’ve been drugged that it will take a while if at all for my memory to be as it used to be. One year of being drugged morning, noon and night by Aunt Stephanie, yet still I want someone who resembles her near me.

“It makes me feel as if I can do anything. Nothing can stand in my way, because I’m empowered after having escaped my torture.”

“That’s true Hazel, you’re a strong woman to survive what you did. I’m so happy that our sessions are helping you.”

“They are Aunt…I meant Dr. Julia”

She shoots up, as if I’ve cursed her with my words. Her eyes widen, her body stiffens, and I can feel the shift in the room. She takes a deep breath, trying to regain control, but I can see the unease creeping in. I wait, unsure if she’s going to speak.

“Hazel, we've spoken about this. I know I resemble your aunt, because this is not the first time that you’ve nearly called me Aunt. Is this the only reason why you’ve chosen me as your Doctor?”

I keep my eyes closed and try to think of something else, anything else, apart from the woman who groomed me. A rush of panic rises in my chest as her face flashes in my mind. My hands tremble at my sides, the weight of it all pressing down harder with each passing second.

“Yes,” I whisper as I confess the truth. “Whenever I feel lost and alone, coming here reminds me of why I’m like this.”

“And the evil you were exposed to.” She clarifies, but this is the thing, Dr. Julia thinks that I was raped by my aunt’s husband. She thinks that my aunt turned a blind eye to it. A story I invented, and in a way it feels as if it was true. My aunt did have a hand in me being raped.

I shake my head as I try to control the tears and get my emotions in check.

“They made me feel...”

My voice is quivering, I can’t lie down anymore as the nightmares start to surface, so I open my eyes and face her.

“Your aunt let her husband rape you. No child should ever get over that.”

She doesn’t need to say it. It’s as if hearing her say it, makes it all true.

“She didn’t. She didn’t want to hurt me. She did it to put a roof over our heads,” I whisper. The excuse I use for Aunt Stephanie’s actions and repeating them over and over again in my head seems to make her actions justified.

“No. Stop excusing her Hazel. You need to realize that your aunt was a monster.”

I can’t.

The constant rollercoaster of emotions strikes again. I wish my feelings towards my aunt could be consistent, but they aren’t, because she’s dead, and the man who shot her just happened to be a cop.

I t has been three weeks since Halloween, and still, sometimes I catch myself wondering if I see him.

The man.

The one with the skull mask.

It’s as if I see him at the corner of my eye—across the street, under the tree, in the reflection of a window late at night. He looks the same. Same build, same dark hoodie, same skull mask like something out of a romance novel.

He never gets close. Never says anything. He just stands there, like he’s waiting. Watching.

At first, I thought I was losing my mind, I’ve done it so many times. I’ve told myself it was just some guy who looked similar. Or maybe I wanted it to be him so badly that my brain just filled in the blanks. It scared me. For a minute. But then I remembered—he saved me. He stepped in when no one else did. If he wanted to hurt me, he could’ve done it.

So no, he’s not here to harm me. He’s here to protect me.

Like some weird, silent version of a knight in shining armor. Except mine wears a skull mask and doesn’t speak. He doesn’t need to.

Sometimes I talk to him.

I’ll be walking around my apartment—this tiny box with creaky floors and too many blankets—and I’ll look out the window and tell him about my day. About the book I’m reading or the dream I had or how I spilled tea on myself again like a total idiot. I ask him if he reads. If he dreams. If he ever thinks about me the way I think about him.

I know how crazy it sounds.

I know I probably need my meds or I should tell Dr. Julia about him.

But I don’t.

Because I like the feeling of being watched, in this specific way. Not in the creepy, leering, make-my-skin-crawl way that I’ve felt too many times before.

This is different. It feels safe. It feels… warm?

God, that’s insane, isn’t it?

But maybe I am.

Maybe I’m just some lonely, broken girl inventing a shadow to make herself feel less alone.

Still, he doesn’t scare me.

Not like real people do.

Maybe that’s the saddest part is that this faceless stranger who never says a word makes me feel more seen than anyone else ever has in the way that I want to be seen. Not some poor rape victim, but in a woman who wants to be desired.

A s my shift ends, I give a half-hearted wave to Tracey and anyone else who might be paying attention. As usual, no one glances my way. I step outside, the cool air hitting me like a warning.

My heart speeds up.

I know who’s out there.

My shadow.

As I reach the second floor in my apartment, I’m out of breath as usual, whenever I walk up the stairs. I try to avoid the elevator, so I can get enough steps for the day.

I take a deep breath once I reach my apartment door, and turn the key. It’s a one-bedroom in an old brick building, two steps to the right and I’m in the living room, then a couple of paces in front, the kitchen and next to it is the bathroom and then the box room aka my bedroom.

I put on the light to illuminate the second hand furniture which is in the apartment. As I shut the door, and kick my shoes off, and head to the small breakfast bar cluttered with unopened mail and half-empty coffee cups. The living room with the sagging couch, a scratched coffee table, and an armchair which has seen better days.

The only thing which puts a smile on my face is the one reminder I have of my parents, what they looked like and the time spent together before they left this world. A photo of when we went ski-ing in Aspen. The last trip we took, before they died in the accident. I was thirteen and loved my time on the slopes. Dad promised I didn’t need lessons, so after one too many falls and nearly losing my life, Mom enrolled me in classes and I’d learned more in the first two hours off my private lesson then I had after a day on the slopes with dad. A smile comes to my face as I pass it, and pick it up, then pause as the memory floods my mind, and then I put it back down on the side table next to the sofa, which leads me to the window. I start to strip slowly as I see him, the mystery man standing by the old oak tree across the street.

I toss my shirt onto the couch, without my eyes leaving him.

He’s always there, watching. A dark figure against the night, silent and patient.

My need to pee distracts me from my shadow as I head to the bathroom. Not only to pee, but to shower.

I’m alone. I’m always alone. So, I don’t have to worry about shutting the bathroom door, or for some room mate to see my naked.

I hang the rest of my clothes up on the hook, and then I turn on the shower. It doesn’t take long, before the water heats up and I walk in allowing the heat to soak up my bones. It’s as if I’m washing away the memory of my past, the non-stop day in the diner and my shadow outside.

The hunger I had as I left work soon becomes a thing of the past. This is the issue when you live alone—eating becomes a chore, a reminder of my solitude, which is why I prefer only baking. Baking is fun, and there is nothing more satisfying than eating chocolate in so many different ways from brownies, to cupcakes to cakes.

I turn off the shower, grab my towel and start drying myself off, before putting on my robe and slippers before heading to my bedroom. As I do, I see him still outside, then I do the craziest thing, I open up my robe to see a reaction from him.

Sure, it’s crazy, because anyone walking by, will see the soft curves of my body, the gentle folds of my skin, and I don’t feel shy showing them to him. For the first time in forever I’m proud of my body.

He doesn’t move. He’s still, so I spin around and head to my front door and I leave it slightly ajar. Just enough for someone to know the door is unlocked if they push it, but not too obvious if someone is walking by, they will notice it, and my pulse quickens as I do it. As excitement rushes over me, I head back to the window, still with my robe undone and I wave to him.

A signal, to let him know that the door is unlocked. I don’t even know if he can see me from where he’s standing, but I hope so.

When night falls the street light casts light into the apartment. I head to the bedroom into my cold sheets then toss my robe at the other end of the room, where there is a sofa lounge.

I feel the warmth of my bed, and put a couple of duvets on top and some blankets do the trick. I soon forget I’ve left my door unlocked as I quickly drift into sleep.

My body obeys, as I part my legs, and they’re soon greeted with fingers tracing them. I blink once, then again, just to make sure I’m not imagining it. He’s here, with a baseball cap pulled low over his brow with a skull mask stretched across his face. The light from the moon spills through the trees, casting him in silver and shadow. My skin prickles, I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.

He has been following me for so long, I know deep down inside, that he wouldn’t hurt me now. I’m naked on top of my bed, there’s no blanket or duvet. Of course, he has discarded them, because he wants to see all of my body. Goosebumps erupt all over my arms.

My eyes widen, unblinking. The pride I had when he was outside the window returns as I open but I can’t see his eyes. I open my legs, and shift on my back, ready to give him the performance he came to see. Part of me wonders if I do a good enough job, will he want to participate ? My mouth goes dry, whilst words are caught in my throat.

“Come for me,” he growls as he teases with his finger near my entrance, but then he slowly shifts it up my inside thigh.

My breaths come in short, shallow bursts. I moan as he does it, not wanting him to stop.

“Come for me!” This time he says it more commandingly and then he backs away from my bed. I don’t want him to leave, and will do anything to get him to stay. There’s something erotic and forbidden about masturbating in general, but in front of someone else, it’s a fantasy I’ve had enough times and now it is becoming my reality, because maybe he wants to see how I please myself in order to help him better understand how to please me.

I lift one hand up to my breast, whereas the other slides in between my legs.

“Take your time!” He commands. This time his voice is hoarse. I want to look at him. See his eyes. Know his name, but they all seem trivial as I do as he says. The slower I move between my legs, I become moist, at a speed I never knew was possible.

I push the skin back and forth over the neck of my clit while paying respect to my inner thighs, outer lips and inner lips.

The place I know like the back of my hand, as I release my other hand from my breast. I don’t hesitate as my breathing intensifies and so does my urge to give him a good performance.

“Just like that. Good girl.” Him praising me, sends me over the edge.

I start to melt and float away. I’ve never had this experience before, it’s as if his praises give me a mind blowing explosive force of nature permeating my whole body and mind. It’s as if I’m floating up in the air, and then everything stops.

I scream at the top of my lungs. “Fuck, yes!” Over and over again.

It’s as if all I release all the tension as I sink on to the bed, unable to get up, because I’m so weak from the ordeal and with my arms wide, and my legs wide open, I fall asleep.

L ight seeps through the blinds, and for a moment, I can’t believe I didn’t wake up shivering from the cold air which comes into the room. I stretch, the ache in my muscles reminding me of the show I put on for him last night.

Then I put my hand over my mouth as I head to the bathroom, smelling my come on my fingers, and recalling the noises I made as I screamed the place down. I’m surprised the neighbors didn’t call the police.

Then as I’m barefoot against the wooden floor. My need to go to the bathroom disappears as I see something on my kitchen workspace. A chill creeps down my spine despite the warmth of the room.

A single red rose, a few dewdrops still clinging to its petals.

The rose stares at me, telling me that it wasn’t a dream, nor a fantasy. He was here, and he locked the door behind him.