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THE BUTTERFLY
M y evening shift has come to an end and I can hear his footsteps following me. I know it’s him. My shadow. I know his scent like the back of my hand and it should scare me, but it doesn’t.
I bought new perfume.
Makeup.
A new dress.
Anything to try and make him come back again. The pounds I’d lost, swiftly came back on. No more did I care about being friends with my colleagues, but only being in his arms.
Doesn’t he want me?
A rejection which burns so deep like a knife against my throat. I knew from that moment I inhaled his cologne, that he was the guy at the shooting range. It was as if all the pieces of a puzzle came together.
My personal stalker.
I knew he was the same man from the shooting range, the one who watched me like he already knew every terrible, beautiful thing I’d ever done. It was like everything in my life, all the scattered moments and fragments, suddenly snapped into place.
I can’t believe I have my own shadow. It’s the same type of fear I would have if I was strapped into a rollercoaster seconds before it drops, my stomach flipping, my breath catching, and somewhere underneath all of it… I’m smiling. Because deep down, I don’t want the ride to end. That’s what it feels like with him.
He tries to stay away, like he's doing the noble thing by keeping his distance, but I know better. He’s always watching. Always close. In almost a year, he’s only come near me three times, and the closest he ever got was that night I left my apartment door unlocked. I remember what happened like it was a dream I never wanted to wake up from. He came in. He touched me. Then, he just left a rose in the kitchen—deep red, soft, just beginning to wilt at the edges like it had waited too long to be chosen.
I kept it. Of course I did. I dried the petals, pressed them between the pages of an old poetry book, and later framed it like it meant something—because it did. It was the first time in my life I felt like someone truly saw me.
It was the best night of my life. The only one I can’t seem to forget. The only one worth remembering.
Unlike me, he clearly works out, he must be at least six foot with an athletic build and all I can think about is, the diner catching fire and him lifting me up and rescuing me in his arms. He would march in, and call out my name, and I would respond to him, then he would envelope me in his arms.
Maybe I’ve been reading too many romantic novels, because this is how I imagine it to be, the reason why we would talk. The reason why he would cross that line and stop being a shadow, and start being the one I go to sleep with at night.
I don’t worry about him hurting me, because if he wanted to do that, then he would have done it already. I stop and pretend I’ve dropped something on the ground when he follows me home from the cafe.
Just like that, he stops too.
I don’t need to spin around to see him being close, because he is. Lately, I’ve read so many dark romance novels on the topic, which is the reason I wrote him a letter last night. I looked at him through my window, I saw him standing and staring at me, like he always does.
D ear You,
I don’t even know your name, but I want to. I remember leaving my door open and hoping it would be a gateway to cross the bridge you’ve created between us.
The first time we were close was at the shooting range. You were wearing that skull mask—the one that should frighten me, but it doesn’t. You handed me the bullets without a word, adjusted my grip like you knew I needed help but didn’t want to ask. Your touch was careful, steady, but I felt the heat of it for hours after. I still do, sometimes.
Then the night in the café on Halloween. You didn’t say anything—you didn’t need to. The jerk was getting rough with me, and then you were there.
Quiet, deliberate, dangerous.
Until he was on the ground. And I should be scared of such violence, but I’ve seen my fair share of dead bodies. Too many, in fact.
I couldn’t even say thank you, because he pleaded for salvation. You warned him with your fists to stay away. And then, as he left, so did you. You became a shadow again.
Then, the night I left my door unlocked. It was an invitation to show you my gratitude, to let you know how much you mean to me. You left a rose. I still don’t know what it means, but I framed it.
Because no one’s ever left me something so delicate before. And somehow, that one flower meant more to me than all the people who’ve ever said they cared.
I don’t know what this is. I don’t even know if it’s real.
But I know how it makes me feel—like I’m alive when I’m near you, and like I’m unraveling when I’m not.
Whatever you are—admirer, shadow, stalker—I’m yours.
Even if you never read this.
Even if you’re never mine.
—Me
Maybe he’ll read my letter, then he’ll come up to my apartment and this will break the barrier. The one he has created, because in the romance novels, the stalker always reveals himself and they make passionate love. The only difference between me and the protagonists are that I’m not a virgin.
I’m far from it.
The whole idea makes me sick to know that ten men raped me, and I wasn’t even awake when they did it.
The monsters.
The ones she claimed were a figment of my imagination, because I couldn’t tell the difference between my reality and nightmares.
Three men wanted to rape me, torture then kill me for a heavy price and I’ll never know if my aunt knew what they planned to do to me.
If the one million she was going to be paid was worth my life?
I’ll never know.
A tear escapes my eye as I relive the past, something I haven’t done in a long time. I don’t want any memories of that night, only my future.
His pace is quickening as I tie my lace. The street’s quiet, it normally is around this time of night. It’s past ten, and I should have left the cafe earlier, but someone had to clean and lock up and the girls never volunteer, because they have plans on a Saturday night not like me.
Vicki, who only started a couple of weeks ago, I declined her offer, and the girls said that I enjoy doing it. I love leaving last.
Tracey hired some marketer to promote the diner on social media and the cafe has been ten times busy since she did that. Before we used to only have a big rush in the morning for breakfast and lunch, now it’s pretty much throughout the day, which is why I’m exhausted tonight. Well, it’s not the only reason. Sometimes, if I really get into a book then it keeps me up at night. I haven’t even had the chance to bake as much. I need to pick that up again soon.. Sometimes I’ll be in bed with my door open, hoping the book will keep me entertained until he ventures inside my apartment, and then I’ll pretend to be asleep, but he never does. One time, I woke up and found the door closed, as if he saw it was open, and wanted to make sure that no one came in.
What did I do so wrong that night?
Maybe it isn’t him coming closer, but someone else. My heart races as I jump up and then I spin around, because I notice that his footsteps sound completely different. They sound heavier to the sound of his breathing too. I never hear him breathe.
All of a sudden, his hand grabs my arm, his fingers firm and unyielding, holding me in place. For a second, I think he’s pulling me into him, that he’s finally crossing the invisible line that he has been tiptoeing along for nearly a year. My shadow. But the grip takes me by surprise, and for a moment I forget how to move, how to breathe, how to be anything other than be still. My thoughts tangle, my tongue feels thick and heavy, caught behind my teeth like a caged thing refusing to be set free.
There’s anotherr man, a blur on the edge of my vision, rushing toward us. I don’t know who he is, or why he’s coming, but something in my chest twists, sharp and cold, and suddenly I can taste metallic in my mouth, because I am biting on my tongue.
Why can’t I speak?
All those self-defense classes feel like a distant, half-forgotten dream now. It’s as if I’ve stumbled into a scene from someone else’s life, a movie playing out too fast for me to follow. I should be doing something—anything—but I’m frozen in place.
“Run!” My shadow yells, and the sound tears through the haze like a gunshot.
I don’t know if the man’s coming for me or for him. I don’t know what the right answer is. But I don’t have time to figure it out. I don’t even have time to be afraid. My legs just move.
I run.
I run like I’ve never run before, heart pounding in my ears, the taste of adrenaline bitter in my mouth. My chest is tight, my lungs burning, but I don’t stop.
By the time I reach the building, my fingers are already digging through my bag, frantic and shaking, clawing for the keys I suddenly can’t find. My vision swims, my breath short and ragged as I fumble through receipts, gum wrappers, a pen that stabs my palm—but finally, finally, I feel the edge of cold metal.
I jam the key into the lock, too forcefully, missing the slot once before I find it, twist it, and shove the door open. My purse slips off my shoulder and crashes to the floor, but I don’t stop to pick it up. I step inside like the world is seconds behind me, ready to break down the door.
Shit!
My phone. It’s in the bag—outside.
And he’s still out there.
I want to go back. I want to grab it, to make sure he’s okay, to know what the hell just happened—but I can’t. I’m too afraid of what I’ll see if I open that door again.
Then I remember the burner phone in my bedroom. The one I keep beside the gun under the bed.
I don’t hesitate. I take the stairs two at a time in the dark, my hand brushing the wall as I go, my fingertips scraping over paint and wood and old nailheads, the scent of dust thick in the air, sharp in my nose.
At last I’m at my apartment door. I shove the key in, but not like last time, there’s no fumbling around, as I open the door, then shut it behind me.
I keep the lights off—my self defense instructor taught me that. He told me how to move through shadows if the time ever came, because I confessed to him in my first class that I’d been attacked once. He told me how to survive and warned me not to act like the next Lara Croft if it ever happens again.
What if that man hurts my shadow? What if he never sees the letter I wrote?
I hit the bedroom floor on my knees without even thinking. Carpet fibers scratch against my skin as I reach beneath the bed, hands closing around cold metal and cheap plastic, and I yank the burner phone out with a shaking grip.
My fucking laces, I never tied them properly, so I just kick off my shoes, ready to put new ones on after I call the police.
I press the numbers—9-1-1—each one louder in my ears than it should be, and wait for the line to connect.
And this time, I don’t freeze.
This time, I speak.
My hand trembles as I bring the phone to my ear, the screen glowing dimly against the shadows of my bedroom. My chest is heaving. The room feels both too hot and too cold, like the air is trying to suffocate me and vanish all at once.
The line connects with a hollow click, and then—
“911, what’s your emergency?”
I open my mouth, but for a second, nothing comes out. My heart is hammering so loud I think the operator might hear it.
“Hello?” the voice says again, firm but calm, like it’s been trained to steady people like me.
“I—I think someone’s in danger,” I manage, my voice hoarse, like I’ve swallowed dust and panic.
“Are you in danger right now?”
“No,” I whisper, and it feels like a lie. “Not anymore. But someone else might be. Outside my building. There were two men. One grabbed me, but he... he was trying to protect me. The other one—he was running toward us. I don’t know who he was. I didn’t see his face. I just ran.”
“Ma’am can I have your address?”
“ Yes, it’s 497y4 Fourth street.”
I don’t hear the rest of what she says. Her voice fades beneath the sudden, brutal crack of gunfire—one, two, three shots, sharp and merciless, echoing in my skull like thunder in a locked room.
My heart slams against my ribs, frantic and wild, like it’s trying to claw its way out of my chest. My breath catches as I drop the phone with every nerve lit up and burning.
One thing is clear—clearer than it has ever been before.’
I know who he is.
The man who changed my life.
The man who watched me from the shadows, who left a rose in the kitchen, who adjusted my grip at the shooting range and pulled me away from danger with hands that should’ve never felt gentle.
He took off his mask, as he grabbed my hand on the street, just before he told me to run. It was for a split second, but it was enough for me to recognize him.
That face.
I’ve seen it once before, the night he walked out of the apartment and held me in his arms while leaving my aunt in a pool of her own blood.
My shadow... is the man who killed her.
The realization crashes over me like cold water, stealing my warmth, my air, my voice. My body shakes, not just from fear but from betrayal, and the twisted heartbreak of it all. I want to scream, to throw something, to shatter this roof and fall through.
Why now?
Why after all these years?
Why after everything I’ve tried to forget?
Why won’t my past leave me the hell alone?
Table of Contents
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- Page 17
- Page 18 (Reading here)
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