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THE BUTTERFLY

T he man.

The one who looks like my stalker, is watching me as I lay by the fire. I can feel his eyes boring through me. As soon as we came inside, Noah said that he would be here later and then I fell asleep. Later on, I heard other footsteps come in, deeper and more pronounced and then this is when I knew it was him from the interrogation room. The one they said was his cousin. The similarities between them are too much for them to be cousins .

They have the same sharp jawline, but my stalker wasn't as sharply dressed as this man. The same dark eyes study me with such intensity, there's no denying it. His hair is black and neatly combed, whereas my stalker's was dirty blonde as if he didn't care about his appearance so much, not like this one who was in a suit, so sophisticated, that I could tell he works in an office. The night when my stalker rescued me from my aunt, if he hadn't said that he was an agent, then no one would have believed him. He was wearing a dark p olo shirt, and black jeans, but the thing that struck me the most was that he had no jacket, just his badge pinned up for all to see, as if he wasn't used to wearing it. He didn't just shoot them once, he shot them over and over again, even when they were dead and on the ground. He didn't want them to survive, he wiped their very existence with repetitive bullets.

Yet, the way he behaves, I don’t know what is wrong with me?

It’s as if I’m a moth to a flame as my skin breaks into a flush with his eyes on me. I don’t know why I’m aroused and scared at the same time?

Adrenaline surges, igniting a panic which makes me feel as if my heart is about to explode out of my chest.

My need to escape takes over as I get up and then spin around and realize that on the outside, this man may look like my stalker, but he’s nothing like him.

Not really.

The moment he steps into the room, it's as if the warm flickers from the fireplace and the gentle glow of the cabin's corner lamp are extinguished. His presence casts a shadow that dims the light itself, as though an overcast sky has followed him indoors, cloaking the space in a sudden, unspoken gloom.

I stand up, my knees nearly give way. It’s as if the little confidence in me is removed by his presence. I worry that in one swift movement he can grab a hold of my neck and break it like a little twig.

Noah said it was too dangerous for us to be in a motel, he didn’t know what links the sheriff had and he didn’t want to take any risks, so the cabin was a good safehouse. I asked him what he knew about safe houses, and he said too much.

I trust him.

He said the cousin, the agent Jamie, is the one I’m afraid will be the one to protect me in the cabin. I just have to trust him. Trust is used loosely in my opinion, it is one thing someone saying it, but another to do it. Mainly because my aunt used to tell me all the time.

“Trust me sweetie, you’re in bed, for your own good.”

“Trust me dear, it’s not good for you to go outside.”

She used the word, trust all the time to prep me before I was raped so whenever someone says the word, trust if anything it sets me into a panic, because I think that’s the last thing I should do.

I move away from the furnishings which are simple - a couple of old chairs, a wooden table, a hand-woven rug. I take a deep breath and I do the one thing I should have done from the moment Noah left me here.

I run.

“Penelope! Where are you going?” He demands. The tone of his voice sends a shiver down my spine. I hold onto the doorknob and then with all my force try to open it. My ten steps probably took him one stride to be side-by-side at the door. He palm slams the door shut. I freeze, my body unable to move, as if his scent is hypnotizing me and sending me back to sleep.

“I save you from the asylum and this is how you repay me!”

I close my eyes and rest my head against the wood of the door, admitting defeat.

“You tried to hurt me in the asylum. I kept running from you, and you kept coming back.”

“Me?” He asks innocently. I can’t even look at him, I know he will seduce me with his eyes, his scent, his touch. It’s as if I crave and hate him at the same time. I never felt this way about my stalker. I wanted him to be near, but this man. This cousin. He’s different. It’s almost as if I can sense his danger from far away and it tells me to stay as far away from him as possible. So, why does the warmth of his hand as he presses it on my back arouse me?

Maybe because for so long, I’ve craved for my stalker to touch me and he did only once, but it wasn’t enough. I wanted more. So much more. It’s as if I’m confusing the two of them, which isn’t hard seeing as they practically look the same.

Deep breaths.

Breathe.

I close my eyes hoping that this man will go away, but my panic and his presence tells me otherwise as he spins me around, then he grips my shoulders and I suck in a breath as he does it.

“Why are you acting as if I’m going to hurt you? I brought you here to be safe!”

I open my eyes to meet his, then I blink as his lips are moving but my mind doesn’t register the words that he’s saying. It’s as if he’s saying one thing, and my mind is warning me of another.

He bends down as if he's about to pick something off the floor. Then he lifts me, as he hooks his arm underneath my knees and uses his other arm around my back in one swoop, then he carries me to the chair. The rocking chair near where I was lying down. The proximity between us makes me hold my breath. I’m unable to breathe by just being in his arms.

My stalker had dark eyes, but it changed to green depending on the way the light fell on it. This man. This hulk of a man holding me, only has darkness in his eyes, it’s as if it’s they're black holes that I can get lost in with no way out.

They remind me of the black hole I create in my mind when I’m suffering from depression. I’ll be walking, and then there will be this big hole in the ground, I can see it before I approach it, and yet, I still walk into it. My younger self, the one who was rescued that fateful night, would stretch her arm down, but she can’t get me out of the hole, so I would lie down. I wouldn’t try to reach her, or do anything, but just lie and look up and see the dark sky and stars above, and think about all the beauty in the world.

At times, I would wake up at this point, other times, something magical would happen. My younger self would build a rope made out of bed sheets. The exact ones which were on my bed, when his cousin rescued me. My younger self would scream my name and tell me to climb. I would smile, feeling relieved that she has found a way for me to get out of the hole and then climb up. By the time I get to the top of the hole, no longer will she be there. Then I would fall in the same hole again, and at this point I would wake up.

Sometimes I would escape the hole and wake up with a smile on my face. If I ever wake up and I’m still in the hole, then I would be low all day. As if there is no hope in life.

Now, it’s as if I’ve woken up, still in the hole. All the anxiety and pain of the past is in me, as if it’s happening right now.

He places me gently on the chair, and I remind myself, that if he was going to hurt me. Really do me harm then he would have done it by now.

“You’re safe with me. No one will harm you, but you can’t be doing silly things like trying to run away.”

His voice is a mix of confidence and arrogance, yet as he speaks and leaves me on the chair, now I crave to be safe in his arms. He works out for sure, I could feel how firm his arms were as he held me. It was as if I weighed nothing. His breathing was steady and his heart beat to the same rhythm as he held me close to his chest. I didn’t put my arms around his neck, but rested it on my chest as he held me.

“I’ll never let anyone hurt you.”

“Like your cousin?” I ask.

He nods his head, his lips firm tight as if he’s not willing to talk about him.

Then he pulls a chair to face me from the other side of the cabin, and we’re now face-to-face, and as I sit across from him, I can't help but be hypnotized by him. His dark eyes catch mine with an intensity that makes my heart race. The way they glimmer—there’s something magnetic about them. His hair is perfectly styled. The muscles in his arms are subtly outlined under his shirt. I find myself stealing glances, unable to look away.

He leans back in his chair, his posture relaxed, his fingers come up to his chin, and I watch him trace the edge of his jaw, his thumb gently pressing into the stubble. The movement is slow, and deliberate, as if he's considering something deeply—or maybe, just toying with me. His gaze never leaves mine as he does it, with a faint smirk. I’m drawn to him, the connection between us undeniable, and it scares me, more than whoever is trying to kill me.

This man before me is cold.

Dangerous.

Calculated.

I knew it from the moment he spoke, that he’s nothing like his cousin and the man who is dead isn’t his cousin. He’s a lot closer to him than that. They just look too much alike to ever be cousins.