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THE BUTTERFLY

T he day after I arrived from the hospital, I had to make a statement to the police, tell them my story of the events and part of the statement was confessing that I’m in a witness protection programme. The other part was being told that in the future I I will need to testify, but for now, I no longer have to be Hazel.

The idea of it all has been tossing in my mind. I’ve been in the this apartment, sleeping, crying and watching Netflix as if it is going to make everything better. It doesn’t, so I decide to do something I should have done as soon as I found out about the Sheriff and came here from the hospital. First, I check my bank account as I stand by the door of my apartment. The one bedroom shell that I've been living in as Hazel Stevenson. My false name. I don’t know much, but one thing for sure, I don’t want to be Hazel anymore.

The numbers on the screen confirm what I already knew—there's enough. Enough to start over, enough to break free. I’ve made more than enough including what was left from my inheritance to nutlike like this anymore, $100,237.16. It’s not a fortune, but enough to start something new.

I drop my phone onto the unmade bed and take a final look around the apartment. The beige walls are bare except for a single framed print of a beach sunset I bought at a thrift store last week. I thought it would make this place feel more like home. It didn’t. I hoped that it would make me forget about the horror I saw outside my window, but it never did. Nothing can apart from leaving here.

The kitchen still has the same coffee mug in the sink from this morning. The bathroom's flickering light that I never bothered to fix. The closet with clothes I never really liked but wore because they were clothes which Hazel would wear. Neutral colors. Nothing flashy, nothing to make her stand out.

It’s as if for the first time in the last six years, I know that Hazel and Penelope are two different people. The other day while I was buying the print, I smiled. Not a customer-service smile which I've perfected at the café, but one that starts somewhere deep inside and spreads to my lips without permission.

Tonight I'm saying goodbye to Hazel.

I crawl into bed fully clothed, too wired to bother changing.

"Tomorrow," I whisper to myself, "tomorrow I'm a butterfly."

The thought makes me giddy, almost drunk with the possibility of being free to do whatever I want. For the first time in nearly two years, I can choose without looking over my shoulder. Without calculating risks. Without wondering if this is the mistake that will finally lead him to me.

I turn toward the window, an old habit I can't seem to break. My eyes search the darkness between the street lamps, scanning for his silhouette. Something moves next to the oak tree across the street. My heart thuds painfully against my ribs as I sit bolt upright. A shadow shifts, separates from the trunk. For a moment, I wonder if maybe Jamie decided to take on the role that his brother had, the one where he was my shadow. I told Jamie that I wanted to be alone, that I needed to be alone. My heart races at the idea of him not taking me seriously, as I draw closer to the window to discover that it’s just a cat. A skinny stray that roams the neighborhood.

The laugh that escapes my throat sounds strange to my own ears—high and slightly unhinged. When was the last time I laughed? Really laughed? The cat darts away, probably startled by the sound coming through my cracked window.

I fall back onto the pillow, still smiling. Sleep comes quickly, dreamless and deep. For the first time in forever, I don't wake up until morning light filters through the cheap blinds.

T he café is busy with the morning rush when I push through the door. The familiar smell of coffee and pastries that once felt comforting now suffocate me, but not as much as seeing my apron with my name tag.

Tracey spots me from behind the counter and her eyes narrow. She's already pissed that I'm twenty minutes late. Her thin lips press together as she jabs a finger toward the growing line of customers.

"Nice of you to finally grace us with your presence.We thought that you may have forgotten that you work here,” she snaps loud enough for the customers to hear.

I laugh, because it feels comical seeing her annoyed. Seeing her upset and most of all Jessica repeating the words which left Tracey’s mouth like a parrot.

"Actually," I say, my voice stronger than I expected, "I'm not staying."

Tracey blinks, her perfectly penciled eyebrows shooting toward her hairline. "Excuse me?"

"I quit." The words taste like freedom on my tongue.

"You can't quit!" Her voice rises, faces in the line turning our way. “Do you know that I’ve had to clean the toilets all week?”

“Well, no. I’ve been doing them,” Jessica interrupts as if she has an opinion of her own. I never knew.

It’s as if they are telling me something which will bother me. Oh no, you had to clean the toilet. Well, let me stay on, because I wouldn’t want your manicured nails to break. She’s talking to someone who doesn’t care, the intimated Hazel, the one they treated like crap cared, but not me. Penelope doesn’t give a shit.

"I am. You've been nasty to me since day one, Tracey. You’ve made me stay late, make me clear the bathroom all the time and cut my breaks. You've taken my tips, made me close alone, and blamed me for every mistake made in this place."

The café has gone silent. Even the hiss of the espresso machine seems muted.

Tracey's face flushes an ugly red. "How dare you—"

"No, how dare you treat people like they're disposable. You can stuff this job. I'm not working here anymore."

I turn on my heel before she can respond, pushing through the now-silent crowd of morning commuters. A few of them are smiling. One woman actually gives me a little nod of approval.

As i reach the door, I have one final word to say. I spin on my heels and say, “my name’s Penelope not fucking Hazel!”

The bell above the door jingles cheerfully as I step outside, and I swear the air itself tastes sweeter than it did ten minutes ago. I’m not sure why I said my real name, maybe because I’m tired of hearing it. Tired of wanting people to like Hazel, no one will need to like Penelope anymore. No. Things are going to be different and it starts with here and now.

I grab my phone while on the curb and call myself an Uber. I’m going to town today to make changes and no one and nothing can bring me down of this natural high that I’m feeling. Not even Tracey. I won’t let her.

T he Uber driver is chatty, asking where I'm heading as we pull away from the cafe, where I used to work. I’m on my way to Ridgemont. It's the next town over, about forty minutes away. Far enough to feel like an escape, close enough to get back if I need to.

"Shopping trip?" he asks, as I settle in at the back.

"Something like that." I smile at him in the rearview mirror. "A fresh start."

He nods like he understands, though he couldn't possibly. We chat about nothing important for a while—the weather, a new restaurant he recommends—before I lean back and watch the landscape change through the window. The cramped streets of my neighborhood give way to wider roads, then the highway, then finally the sprawling shopping district of Ridgemont.

He pulls up to the entrance of Ridgemont Mall.

"Perfect," I reply.

The mall is just opening, stores raising their gates as employees prepare for the day. I've been saving for so long, denying myself everything but essentials. Today, I'm making up for lost time.

My first stop is a clothing store I would have never entered before—bright colors spill from every rack, nothing beige or gray in sight. The saleswoman approaches with a professional smile.

"Can I help you find anything?"

"I need everything," I tell her with a laugh that surprises us both. "I'm starting over."

Something in my expression must convey the weight of those words because her professional smile softens into something more genuine. "Then let's make it count."

Three hours and $876 later, I've transformed. Dresses in emerald green and deep purple. Jeans that actually fit. Tops with sequins and patterns and not a single sensible cotton blend among them. Shoes that weren't chosen for how quickly I could run in them.

The saleswoman—Kimberly, according to her name tag—helps me choose a new suitcase for all my purchases. "You weren't kidding about starting over," she says as she rings up the last items.

"Life's too short for clothes you hate," I reply, and we both laugh like it's the most profound thing ever said.

Next is electronics—a new phone, paid in cash. The sales rep is a lanky college student who doesn't ask questions when I tell him I don't want to transfer any data from my old phone. He does, however, recommend a surprisingly affordable laptop when I mention needing one for job searches.

"This model's on sale today. Good specs for the price," he explains, not pushing the more expensive options.

Lunch is at a small Italian place in the mall where the pasta is handmade and the bread still warm. I order a glass of wine with my meal, something I haven't done in public since before. The waiter doesn't card me or look twice when I order a second glass.

By mid-afternoon, I've spent nearly two thousand dollars and don't regret a penny. The final stop is the hair salon. I've been eyeing it since I arrived, working up my courage. My current hair is a dull brown, box-dyed every six weeks in my bathroom sink. It's a color chosen specifically because it's forgettable.

The stylist who greets me has hair in about five different colors, none of them occurring in nature. Her name tag reads "Destiny" and her smile is infectious.

"What are we doing today?" she asks, running her fingers through my limp, damaged hair.

I take a deep breath. "I want to be my natural color again. Ginger."

Her eyes light up. "Oh, honey, you're going to be stunning as a redhead. Let's get this drab mess fixed up."

The process takes hours. First stripping the box dye, then carefully applying color to match my natural shade, then a treatment to repair some of the damage. Destiny chats the whole time, not minding when I don't share much about myself. She fills the silence with stories about her two cats and her girlfriend who's a tattoo artist.

"I'm thinking of getting another tattoo," she says as she works the conditioning treatment into my scalp. "Something small, maybe behind my ear."

"I've always wanted one," I admit. "But I never had the courage.” I remember seeing Ruslan’s hand as he grabbed me, he had a tattoo on it. Even in the morgue I saw one on around his neck, I remember being fascinated by it. What did it mean? Why do people get tattoos?

I want to ask her, but she will think I’m some child asking loads of questions. I think that I read somewhere that some people see it as art. Some would buy a drawing or a painting, whereas others will want a tattoo, a constant reminder of a loved one, a memory on their skin.

She smiles at me in the mirror. "Well, today seems like your courage day. There's a place right down the hall if you're serious."

I'm not that brave. Not yet. But I tuck the idea away for another day.

When she finally spins the chair around for the big reveal, I hardly recognize myself. The woman in the mirror has vibrant copper hair falling in soft waves to her shoulders. Her eyes look greener somehow, her skin warmer.

“Penelope, what do you think?" Destiny asks, clearly proud of her work.

I blink and stare at her for a second, most likely she thinks that it has something to do with my hair, but it is more the fact that she called me by my name. As soon as I arrived, I said my name is Penelope, almost as if Hazel is my past. But to truly make her my past, I must leave Maplewood.

”I think," I say slowly, "this is who I was always supposed to be."

I add a generous tip to my bill, thanking her profusely as I gather my things. As the mall closes, I decide that I’m not ready to go back to Maplewood, I like being out of town so I look for a hotel nearby and within budget. I have money, but it doesn’t mean that I’m going to spend all of it in a flash. After deciding on a decent hotel, I call another Uber.

The Uber ride back takes longer in evening traffic. My new phone has no contacts, no history. A blank slate. I book a room at a hotel on the outskirts of town, somewhere clean but not flashy. Tomorrow I'll go home.

The driver drops me at the hotel and helps me with my new luggage. I check in under my real name and the more times I repeat it, the more I have a swing in my step and I feel more upbeat.

It's nearly nine when I finally make it to my room. I shower, washing away the last bits of hair dye and the lingering scent of the café. The hotel shampoo smells like artificial flowers, but it's still better than the discount brand I've been using.

I’m lying on the bed in my new bath robe, when I open my new laptop and start searching for apartments in cities I've never visited. Places where no one knows either version of me. I'm so engrossed that the knock at the door makes me jump, sending my heart racing.

No one knows I'm here.

I approach the door cautiously, peering through the peephole.

Noah.

My heart skips a beat as I open the door, but keep the security chain in place. "How did you find me?"

“You forget that I said I’m good at my job,” he chuckles. His blue eyes light up, reminding me how innocent he appears but underneath it all he’s a hacker, one that can tap into any system including possibly my new phone that I bought only hours ago.

I know, but I didn't realize how good. The last time I heard, he'd been in an accident and was in the hospital. He’s thinner than when I last saw him, cheekbones more pronounced, the shadows beneath his eyes deeper like bruised fingerprints against his skin. But in a dark polo shirt that clings to his still-broad shoulders and matching pants that hang loosely on his frame, he doesn't pose as a threat. He didn't look threatening the first day I woke up in that house and he looks even less so now.

A cold dread washes over me, my skin prickling with goosebumps despite the stuffy warmth of the room. My mouth goes dry, tongue sticking to the roof of my mouth. "He knows where I am?"

Noah nods grimly, the lines around his eyes deepening. "Jamie is... he's not well, Penelope. He's devastated about what happened. About how things ended."

"Devastated?" The word comes out as a bitter laugh that scrapes my throat raw.

"He says he just wants to talk. To apologize. He's outside."

The room suddenly feels too small, the walls pulsing inward with each breath. "Outside? Here?"

"In the parking lot. He's been watching your window since you checked in."

I step back from the door, my mind racing, because I'd decided to get out of town. The carpet feels rough beneath my bare feet, grounding me in this moment even as panic threatens to pull me under. I haven't seen Jamie in days, he kept his word by not having any communication with me.

"Why doesn't he tell me himself?" I demand, as I move back to the door. "If he just wants to talk, why is he hiding outside, watching me from the window as if he’s Ruslan?"

I'm not Hazel anymore, and I'm not the scared version of Hazel who stayed in a motel, waiting for him to rescue me. My heart pounds against my ribs like a prisoner demanding release, but I refuse to be ruled by fear again.

I move to the window and pull back the curtain just enough to see the parking lot below. The fabric is rough between my fingers, smelling faintly of dust and cigarettes. And there he is, standing beneath a streetlamp, looking up at my window. The yellow light catches on the contours of his face, on the sharp angles of his cheekbones and the hollow at his throat. Even from this distance, I can feel the weight of his gaze.

Jamie.