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THE BUTTERFLY

I 'm lying here, on a bed which is too clean, and white. The smell of antiseptic and bleach is in the air, yet, I can't get the smell of the man's breath as he bent down to talk to me or maybe he wanted to kiss me. It's as if it seeped into my skin. The only sound in the room is the dull hum of machines, constantly beeping which sets my nerves on edge.

I blink, trying to focus on the sterile white walls. Everything feels off, unreal, like I'm still dreaming. My fingers brush against something cold, smooth—maybe a metal bed rail. The sheets beneath me feel rough, almost paper-thin.

There’s a slight pressure on my arm—an IV, I think—but it feels like an intrusion. I try to move, but my limbs feel heavy, as though they're not quite responding to my commands. But I smile, because up until recently, I couldn’t feel or move them at all, so I know one thing for sure: anything is better than nothing.

The lights above me are too bright, too harsh, making the edges of my vision blurry. I see someone at the corner of my eye dressed in white. A part of me wonders if this is even real, or if it is like one of the times I was with my aunt, and I wouldn’t be able to move, and I would daydream of the past. A time when things were good, like when my parents were alive.

I have no idea what happened or if anything is even real. Nothing makes sense, I wonder if Aunt Stephanie has been giving me my medication again, and once again this has led to my confusion.

I realize the other person in the room, dressed in white is a nurse. There’s a big relief as I think about how my life is going to be better now.

“Is my aunt here?” I ask the nurse as she checks my vitals on the machine. I can only move my arms a little, as if there is something against them holding them down.

Her dark eyes soften as she looks at my bed, probably surprised I’m awake.

Where am I? What happened?

I try to sit up, but a sharp pain shoots through my chest. The pain doesn’t stop. The nurse’s face is calm but concerned. "Take it easy," she has a soft voice, but then keeps one hand on my back as she helps me sit up. "You’re in hospital. You’ve been through a lot."

I want to ask questions, but my throat feels raw, and dry. I swallow hard. "What happened?" My voice cracks. I don’t even recognize it.

"You’ve had an accident," she says, but it’s not enough. The confusion deepens. "Your aunt..,” she adds, her words soft, and careful.

"Aunt... what?" I croak.

She doesn't answer right away. There's a pause, I wait patiently for her to answer.

"She passed away," the nurse says, her voice low, and I don’t know how to react.

My aunt is... dead? My heart pounds, but I can’t make sense of the emotions. Memories of what she’d done to me, the last few weeks enter my mind. She was the woman who held me hostage. She spoon-fed me poison with a smile, but yet my chest aches for her, because she’s dead.

The nurse’s face softens further, and I feel her eyes linger on me, like she’s waiting for something. I don’t know what. My thoughts are still tangled, blurry. I try to focus, but it's like trying to hold onto smoke.

“Is there anyone I can contact?” she asks gently, her voice barely above a whisper. She’s waiting for me to give her something—someone.

I shake my head slowly, like the motion will somehow clear the fog inside me. “No,” I croak, my throat tightening, like even saying the word “no” hurts.

The nurse pauses, her lips press into a thin line with a shadow of concern in her eyes. She takes a step back, pulling out a clipboard from a drawer near the bed. “Are you sure?” she asks, but her tone has changed, like she already knows.

I nod, once, a slow, deliberate motion. “She was... my only living relative.”

It’s a lie. My grandparents are still alive, but how can I tell them my aunt sold my body to the highest bidder, and not just once, but over and over again. The guilt will be too much for them to take, and Grandpa—my poor, sweet Grandpa—has cancer too.

The silence stretches out between us. The machine beeps, breaking the silence. I don’t have the strength to bring my grandparents into this.

Then again, I’m sixteen. What happens to someone like me when there are no family members? I’ll be put into a home or something.

The nurse stands still for a moment, then glances down at her clipboard, as if she’s trying to find a way out of this— a way to make it all better. But there’s nothing.

“Don’t worry,” she says, finally breaking the silence. “We’ll figure something out. We’ll get in touch with social services. You’re seventeen, so if we do put you in foster care then it would only be for a year. But after what you’ve been through, a Residential Treatment Center may be the better option.”

It’s as if there’s a ringing sound in my ears. A siren. It’s as if I misheard what she had just said.

“Seventeen?” I repeat.

She nods her head, but then gives me a moment to process. I moved in with my aunt just after my sixteenth birthday. I remember my grandparents wanted to throw me a birthday party, but I didn’t want them to make a fuss. I appreciated everything they did for me, but out of all the holidays from Christmas to Easter to Halloween, birthdays were the hardest without my parents. They were a reminder that they weren’t around, and could never celebrate it with me. Grandma made me a lemon cake, I remember it as if it was only yesterday as I ran down the stairs, and Grandma held the cake with her trembling hands from her arthritis.

Sixteen.

I blew out the candles, wishing for a car, Grandpa opened the door and there was one on their drive.

Sixteen.

I know Grandpa was sick, but did I really leave their hearts and minds when I left to go to my Aunt Stephanie. I turn away, unable to look at her, as the reality hits me. I thought I’d been with Aunt Stephanie for a few months, but it had been a whole year.

One year and no phone call.

No checking up on me.

A tear escapes my eye at the idea of the only people who really cared about me being dead, and the ones left sold me, and the others just ignored me.

The nurse is behind me, clearing her throat. Probably reminding me she’s still in the room, as I hold on to the pillow for dear life. "Is there anyone else we can contact for you? A friend?"

"No," I whisper, barely recognizing my own voice. "She... was my only living relative."

Aunt Stephanie wasn’t my only living relative but the only one who was looking after me at the time.

I turn to my side not wanting to feel the pain in my heart right now. I thought Grandma would at least care what happened to me.

I was wrong.

I was alone.

All alone.