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THE BUTTERFLY

I try to open my eyes, and struggle, but then as I slowly lift my eyelids I see not white walls, but yellow ones. There are pictures on the wall. I should be in the asylum away from here, but instead I’m in a different place. I blink trying to take in my surroundings, but nothing makes sense.

I doubt the nurses would start making the sheets smell of vanilla. If they did, then everyone would want to stay in an asylum. I get out of the bed, still wearing the gown that I was wearing whilst in the asylum.

I walk to the window, my heart racing as I try to make sense of it all. The blinds are down so I lift them up. It’s as if memories of when I was held captive by my aunt flood into my mind. Am I going to be bedridden again, and not be able to go walk or go out? In a wave of panic, I get out of the bed, and head to the window where I see houses in front. A neat garden and I’m clearly in a suburb. A guy is walking his dog, and as I watch him, I attempt to open the windows. I can. I can open all of them.

There must be a catch somewhere, so I head to the door. My heart misses a beat at the idea of not being able to open it.

Yet, I do it without hesitation and then I can hear voices downstairs. One I recognize as being the cop’s cousin. Or rather he’s the cop and the other was the stalker. Either way, I scratch my head, as I think about getting dressed into clothes, but then I see a robe on the other side of the beds so I grab it and cover my gown and there are fluffy pink slippers by the bed. Funnily enough I have ones just like this at home. The robe too.

Hmm.

Should I go downstairs, or stay up here?

My mind races as I try to figure out the best thing to do, the brave me.The one who has been training how to defend herself, decides she’ll make a quickstep into the bathroom, freshen up and then go downstairs.

Once in the bathroom, I grab the towel and everything which looks as if it has been left for me. If this is a kidnapping, then all these things wouldn’t have been left for me. Would they?

Once I freshen up, I head down the carpeted stairs. It feels like a family home with pictures on the wall of a boy with blue years and the brightest blond hair, and the cop, beside him in them or his cousin. I stop to stare at a big photo which is at the end of the stairs. They look so happy together, and I feel a wave of sadness as I remember photos like these in my old family home when my parents were alive. I was around eight or nine when I came home and Dad surprised me with a puppy. After months of begging for one and showing I was responsible enough to have one, Dad finally caved and bought one. But then he died after a few months. I was walking in the park and I turned my back for one minute after seeing a boy I liked in class.

A bigger dog chased and killed him. It was horrific. Dad tried to make me feel better by offering to buy another, but I kept having memories of the day he was killed. Months of loving and caring for him were wiped out in a flash of a second.

“Penelope.” A hand gently touches my shoulder and brings me back to my new reality.

I go back up one step keeping the distance between us. I don’t remember how I got here, or even when. I just woke up and here I am, is this another trick?

I hated working in the diner, I hated being invisible and having no friends, but now I’ve gone from witnessing a murder to going back into the asylum to ending up here.

Where is here?

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.”

The boy. The blue-eyed and blonde-haired boy from the picture. Now he’s a man, but there is no mistaking the eyes. It’s like he’s too beautiful to exist, yet he’s standing in front of me.

“I was going to check on you. You’ve been out like a light for a while.”

“A while?” I repeat. There are so many questions going on in my head, but for now I can’t get over how beautiful he is. It’s as if he’s an angel and I wonder for a second, am I in heaven?

I tilt my head, wondering if it is one of those times that I’m dreaming again, and I’m confused about what’s happening and my reality.

“Yes. Don’t worry. There’s the kitchen. I’m just heading to the bathroom and then I’ll get you some food and then we can chat.”

He doesn’t give me a chance to respond, as I follow where his finger was pointing and head to the kitchen. It’s an open plan kitchen diner. I see an analogue clock on the wall, it’s nearly three and he said, breakfast. Have I really been sleeping all day?

The thing is, before I came down the stairs, I could have sworn that I heard two people talking, but maybe it was my mind playing tricks on me again.

“How long have I been here?” I ask him.

“Two days,” he replies.

“So what’s today’s date?”

He looks at his watch and then back at me. “It has been eleven days since you saw him die. If that’s what you want to know.”

Eleven days of my life has gone in a flash. I only know that from the time I was in the asylum to now, it has been two days. I was in the asylum for nine days. Eleven long days and I wanted to be sedated to not remember what happened that night, but for nine days, it feels over the top. I don’t even remember seeing my therapist, Dr. Julia after the first night that I signed myself in.

“Why was I brought here?”

He avoids my eye contact after I ask the question, it’s as if he’s willing to answer some, but not all of my questions. I’m hungry. No starving, I don’t even know where to start, it’s as if I want to forget all my table manners and just put everything in my mouth at the same time. I would, if the guy wasn’t with me. I’m not an animal. I just have to figure out where the plates are…

“You need to go upstairs and put on some clothes,” he says, still reading the message on his phone.

“Why?” I ask.

I did notice clothes in the closet, all brand new clothes. How did he know what size to get?

“Whose clothes are upstairs? I saw some clothes in the closet. Are they mine?”

He nods. “Yeah. It’s no big deal if you don’t like them. You were out cold, so I got some things for you. You can go to the store and pick out new ones if you want.”

I feel embarrassed that he went shopping for me, especially for underwear. Did he measure me while I was sleeping? I’m about to ask why he didn’t just go to my place and get my things, but I realize it’s a silly question.

Maybe he broke me out of the asylum?

The question is why?

It’s as if someone has sucked all the air out of him, because he’s not calm and collective as he was just a few minutes ago.

“What?” I say as my eyes trace around the kitchen, not wanting to leave without grabbing food.

“Can I grab something to eat?”

He nods, then shakes his head. “No. I’ll grab you food. When we get to the safehouse, then you can shower and we can talk. I’m pretty sure that you have questions.”

Safehouse?

“One,” I say, because we need to clear the air before I go anywhere with him. Right now, he may look innocent, but I know one thing for sure, never judge a book by its cover.

“What is it?”

“What’s your name?”

“Noah,” he chokes. Then he motions for me to get ready, so I hurry up the stairs. I don’t feel nervous with him, but the question is can I really trust him?

He either bailed me out of the asylum or the cousin did?

The question is why, but for now I’m going to go along with whatever I’m running away from, because someone tried to kill me. I’m not going to give them a chance to succeed, not after all I’ve been through.

W e’re in the car, getting away from danger. He drives in silence, and the roads are quiet, as we head from the suburb down the highway. I have no idea where we are going, or why he brought me to his place in the first place.

“Here,” he says as he shoves a bag in my lap. He took it from the back of my chair and gave it to me. The silence is broken between us as I try to figure out where we are, and where we’re going to, but then at the same time I’m distracting myself from thinking about food.

I’m hungry.

Starving.

I’ve been in the house for days and not eaten.

“I didn’t go to the bathroom for two days.”

He chuckles. “Yes, you went the bathroom. I even left a sandwich by the bed for you. You must have eaten that too. But you would get up, go to the bathroom, eat and then fall back asleep again.”

“Huh,” I reply, as I greedily open the bag and I’m happy to see not only the croissants but the donuts too. I don’t even care about my weight or diet at this stage as I start stuffing my mouth.

“You’ve been heavily sedated for days, it makes sense for you to act like that.”

“You’re an expert,” I gulp as my eyes lock with his as he stops at a stop light.

“No. I just read a lot of shit.”

Maybe Noah and I could be friends in another lifetime. Right now, I’m trying to figure out why he’s helping me, and why I’m in his house. Then again, part of me doesn’t want to know. Every time I’m curious about something, it always ends badly. I’ve been shown no reason to be scared, but I need to be more apprehensive about why someone has broken me out of the asylum.

“There’s juice in there too and a bottle of water. If you’re thirsty.”

I hesitate in exploring the bag. It’s as if this guy is too nice to me, and I should be worried, but then I have no reason to be scared. I was in a room, it wasn’t locked and I could leave freely.

He asked me to get ready and go up to the room. My room he called it, which I did and there were clothes there for me. All my size. Then I got in the car, he didn’t exactly drag me into it. I did it off my own accord.

“Thanks.” I croak trying to think of something to say, but the words don’t seem to leave my mouth.

Ask no questions, hear no lies, springs to mind, a saying that I heard a long time ago. Then all the random sayings which make me forget to ask something else. Maybe my plan should be simple, if at any time I feel threatened then I should ask to go to the bathroom and then I’ll make a run for it.

Yeah, that’ll be my get out of here plan!

“What type of music do you like? I like jazz, I can put whatever you like on. The car has Spotify?”

I stare at him. No one asks what I like. What I want to eat. Let alone anything else related to me. The only man that was interested in me, is dead now. I saw him being killed trying to protect me again. The first time he managed to get me away from my aunt, the second time, he wasn’t so lucky.

“I’ve never listened to jazz,” I confess.

“Really? You don’t know what you’re missing? I love jazz, especially, because it reminds me of a time when I was young, and when my…,” he pauses and then for the first time since I’ve met him. I see darkness come into him as he stiffly carries on driving. No more is he smiling, nor shifting in his seat, but it's as if he has become a statue.

“My dad loved to listen to jazz. So, this is why I listen to artists such as Miles Davis, John Coltrane, and Billie Holiday. They went through tough childhoods and came out on top."

I nod my head, not quite sure what he means, until I see Blue in Green by Miles Davis, come up on Spotify.

I wait for Miles Davis to start singing, but then I realize it’s instrumental. So, I close my eyes and imagine being at a jazz concert, listening to the trumpet and piano melodies convey deep emotional struggles—perhaps longing, loss, or regret. Then I realize what Noah was saying as I close my eyes, and all I feel is sadness while he continues to drive and I listen to the song. I’m not thinking about where we are going, or what danger we can be in. It doesn’t matter, as all the sorrow and pain filling the car right now, tugs at every beat of my heart.

It’s then that it dawns on me, like lightning and thunder that I’m not the only one who has been a victim of rape, the man beside me has been too. No more do I feel threatened by him, because he understands what I’ve been through, because he has lived through it too.