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7

PRESENT DAY

THE BUTTERFLY

T he alarm buzzes, the noise is sharp and relentless, echoing in my one-bedroom apartment.

I groan, and the bed creaks as I sit up, rubbing my eyes. Morning light filters through the blinds. The weekend is over, and it’s time to start a new day. I work as much as possible, so I don’t have time to think about my past. The only time I talk about it is in my therapy sessions.

After all I’ve been through, a therapist is the last person I should trust. But when you’re as lonely as I am, being able to talk to someone makes sense — even if one of their colleagues could be the reason your nightmares began in the first place.

I'm not blaming anyone for what happened in my life. Even though everyone said it was my aunt's fault, if men like those never existed, then my aunt wouldn't have had the opportunity to do what she did. She was an addict—not only to gambling but in the past drugs too. She stopped being a drug addict, and gambling took its place. Some people are like this, they're addicts. Maybe I have been groomed by my aunt so much the fact I'm even defending her is crazy, which is why I need to keep my emotions in check and stop them from acting as if they're on a rollercoaster.

I head into the kitchen, because I can’t function or do anything unless I have a cup of coffee first thing in the morning. I open the cupboard, grab my favorite chipped mug—the one with a sunflower design which has faded from too many dishwasher cycles in the two years since I’ve lived here. The smell of instant coffee fills the room as I stir the powder into hot water. I sip carefully, the bitterness wakes me up, before I brush my teeth.

After finishing my coffee, I glance in the mirror by the front door. My hair—newly brown, a decision I made last week, after feeling tired of being ginger. A disguise I needed for the court case, and just stuck to. I’m in a witness protection program, in case some of the men who tried to rape me ever come after me. For what? I don’t know.

If anyone should be after them, it’s me—because they ruined my life. Besides, the FBI claimed to have put all of them behind bars, while others either committed suicide or were killed by family members who also came forward with similar cases. It’s as if my case opened a Pandora’s box, prompting other victims to come forward.

The moment I came out of the Residential treatment center. I discovered the reason why I was having nightmares of monsters at night, and the real reason why my aunt was shot dead. I'd been abused for a year, not knowing the difference between night and day, so I opted to go to a center hoping to learn the real truth about my past would make me feel better.

I was given a therapist, and she put me on a different set of drugs, which didn’t make me feel spaced out all the time. Once I started to feel normal again, everything about my life didn't seem so bad after all, because I was young and had a future to look forward to. The therapist’s words, not mine.

Another alarm sounds, reminding me to get my butt in the shower and head to work. I have an alarm for everything I need to do in the morning, because if not, I get distracted and think about the past.

This is why I need to take any shift I can get because it took a good few months after I moved to Maplewood, Ohio, before I got a job.

Even though I live alone—sometimes I get scared of my own shadow. No one knows about my past, I have no friends, no family left that I know of, but sometimes I have a gut feeling it’s not over. This is why I registered to get a gun when I turned nineteen.

Also, I took shooting lessons, because there’s no point having a gun, if I don’t know how to shoot. The gun is safely tucked under my mattress, and I check on it every night to ensure it has its safety on. The officers said the rapists might come after me meant they hadn’t caught all of them. They said their family members might seek revenge. Either way, once I made sense of what had happened to me—and realized I was alone in the world—I knew I had to protect myself for the first time in my life. I had no one to rely on.

Falling asleep is something I struggle with at times. It’s something I worry about doing, even though my Aunt has been dead for over five years, and I’m in a completely different town with a new life.

I couldn’t attend Grandpa’s funeral when cancer took over his life because the press were all over the case. I didn’t want to bring the wrong attention to the day. A few weeks later, Grandma died too. Maybe she felt guilty about what had happened to me, or maybe she died of a broken heart from Grandpa’s passing. Who knows? I just remember hearing the news and feeling all alone—more alone than I’ve ever felt before in my life.

When the police contacted Grandma, while I was in hospital, then she came to see me and I could see the pain in her eyes. She felt guilty about not being my guardian, and, opting to be a full-time carer for Grandpa, she hated how little she had visited me or tried to find out if Aunt Stephanie was up to foul play. She assumed it was something trivial like Aunt Stephanie hadn’t been going to parent-teacher conferences. Even worse, she voiced concerns about Aunt Stephanie being a good guardian in case she would be late to pick me from school, but never selling my body for money. Never in a million years.

"I bet your mother is turning in her grave. What kind of monster did I give birth to?” she would cry relentlessly.

It hit home that it wasn’t about me being in hospital, or her no longer being my guardian, but about Aunt Stephanie. Her daughter did disgusting, horrible things to another child who happened to be her niece.

As she expressed her guilt, and shame when she first came to visit me. Grandma confessed that they had to move, right in the middle of Grandpa’s chemo, because they were getting a lot of hate mail, and threats. After my case hit the headlines, it was as if she hadn’t been through enough already. Watching her carry that weight, silently, almost ashamed to meet my eyes, twisted something sharp in my chest. Through my ordeal, I’d never been angry, just heartbroken. I remember Grandma appearing smaller, as if grief had folded her in on herself. I wanted to comfort her. I wanted to scream at her.

Poor Grandma.

A burden that she had with her until the end. Grandpa never knew the truth, by the time Aunt Stephanie was killed, he was too weak to know the difference between night and day, just like me when I lived with Aunt Stephanie. In a way it was ironic.

I pause for a minute as I admire my new frame. I’ve not ventured into the gym, but I watch what I eat and do plenty of walking and Zumba videos on YouTube. Maybe next month I’ll go to the gym. My therapist says that it’s a good way to meet people.

I turn on the shower, letting the water run warm, and slowly peel off my pajamas. I recall why I was hesitant about joining the gym in case someone gets to know me, I may end up telling them the truth about my past. I may tell them that nothing on my CV is real, including my social security number. So, I can’t speak to anyone apart from my therapist until I’m used to being Hazel, my new name.

I’m only twenty-two, and I’ve never really had a friend, not one that I can remember. I did when I was little, middle school and all that, but high school, I spent most of it grieving my parents and then that thing happened. The thing that I keep trying to shove to the back of my mind.

The meaning of friends.

I see them come into the cafe.

Two. Three or at times a group of girls or guys. Just hanging out and talking about whatever they have in common from a book club to working in the same place.

The girls at work go out, but they never invite me.

I’ve worked there for over a year now, and I should have at least one friend during this time. Whenever I see Jessica, one of the waitresses, and Tracey, the owner, laughing together, they lean their heads in close, whispering things I’ll never hear. I wish for once, they would let me in their little joke, but they never do. I keep telling myself that I should just say something—anything—to them. But they’re best buddies, their bond so tight.

Would they even want a third wheel?

I’d love to hang out with some girls, not to talk about boys, nor beauty tips, but just to feel included.

The bathroom fills with steam, curling against the mirror and softening the edges of my reflection. The scent of lavender body wash hangs in the humid air, soothing yet bittersweet. As the water heats to a near scald, it’s my signal to step into the shower.

It’s as if the moment I step in, the get-out-of-the-door alarm slices through the haze. Panic surges as I realize how much time I’ve wasted. “Crap,” I mutter, fumbling to turn off the water. My hand slips on the slick knob, and the metallic coldness bites against my fingers before I finally shut it off.

I’m going to be on time. I think that’s the issue, I set these alarms so that they give me a thirty minute allowance, and it should help me get there early, but knowing there is a flaw in the system just makes me not take it so seriously.

I get dressed in the same jeans and white T-shirt that I do every day, when you have no one to go shopping with, or nowhere else more interesting to go than work, shopping and weekly trips to the therapist, then you lose all interest in shopping.

It just feels dull.

Then again, maybe this is part of the reason the girls think of me as boring, because I always wear the same thing. Black pants and a matching shirt. The next time I go shopping, I’ll buy brighter colors that will make them want to talk to me. They’ll think of me as someone other than a waitress at the diner.

I tie my hair up in a ponytail and grab my purse before leaving. The apartment complex is quiet this early. I can hear the TV through a neighbor’s door, and the scent of someone’s burnt toast lingers in the hallway. I step outside into the crisp morning air, with the earthy smell of damp leaves lingering in the air with faint traces of car exhaust from the nearby main road.

Maplewood is just waking up. It’s a medium-sized town, so not quite bustling with people, dogs and kids, but it would probably be considered a sleepy village compared to somewhere like the Big Apple. The streets are lined with brick buildings, with flower boxes hanging under windows, holding winter pansies that bloom despite the chill.

The diner where I work is about a twenty-minute walk. I prefer walking— to get some fresh air, and a bit of exercise outside of just working in a diner. It gives me a chance to clear my mind before the day begins. I pass the town square, where the fountain trickles softly. The water sparkles in the sunlight, its surface occasionally disturbed by a stray leaf. The faint sound of a bird chirping somewhere high above mixes with the distant rumble of a delivery truck.

I turn down Elm Street, where the sidewalk narrows and the trees arch overhead, their branches bare against the pale sky. A gust of wind brushes past, so I tug at my scarf and make myself shiver even though we’re in Spring. I know soon it will be Summer and I will be complaining about the heat. My fingers tighten around the strap of my bag.

When I reach the diner, the Honeycomb Haven, I see the front door which is painted a cheerful shade of teal, and check out the small chalkboard sign standing outside, which is announcing today’s specials in loopy handwriting.

I step inside, and the warmth hits me immediately. The cafe is mismatched with furniture and the walls are a warm shade of gold. The air is thick with the scent of coffee and vanilla, mingling with the faint tang of citrus which the cleaner used on the counters. The wooden floor creaks softly under my feet as I walk to the back to hang up my coat and bag. The fabric of my uniform—a black apron embroidered with the cafe’s name—is soft from countless washes as I tie it around my waist.

I'm right on time—not that anyone notices or cares. I try to get the attention of Tracey, just to greet her and say hello, but she ignores me, as she often does. She's in her mid-40s, with dyed auburn hair pulled into a tight ponytail and heavy eyeliner that’s definitely not going to last as it is already smudging and it is only nine in the morning. Her pastel pink button-up is tucked neatly into high-waisted jeans, a faded name tag reading “Tracey” pinned to her chest. On her feet, spotless white sneakers move briskly across the floor. She looks the part of the friendly diner owner—polished, confident—but her smiles rarely reach me. Her friend does the same, as they tend to customers and act as if they're the friendliest girls in the world. I take a deep breath, close my eyes for a split second, then take my place and begin my shift with the usual tasks.

Right now, I need this job.

Friendships will just have to wait. I’ve made it this far on my own, so what’s a few more minutes, days, or even weeks without them? It’s not like I’m expecting Tracey to think of me as one of the girls overnight. I know how to be alone—I’ve learned how to fill the silence, to smile politely and nod at just the right moments. Yet, it would be nice to feel noticed for something other than being helpful. Most days, all I hear is: “Hazel, can you pass me the muffins?”

It makes me wonder if anyone sees me as anything but just some waitress in the diner.

I take a deep breath and start my first task of the day, the muffins. I pull trays of muffins from the oven, the heat radiates against my face as I set them on the cooling rack. I arrange them in the display case, the golden tops glistening under the lights.

I read somewhere that the key to happiness is focusing on what you have, rather than what you don’t. So, my mission for today is to focus on the fact that I have a job.

I’m lucky to have one. What I’m not so lucky about is being surrounded by sweet, delicious treats all day.

There I go again.

My hands smell faintly of cinnamon from handling the pastries, and I resist the urge to lick my fingers. I don’t talk much, just the basics: “What can I get you?” “Have a great day.”

My voice is soft, almost drowned out by the hiss of the espresso machine and the clatter of cups. It’s fine, though. I like it this way. The routine, the steady rhythm of work, is comforting. It keeps my mind from wandering too much.

It’s not a glamorous life, but it’s mine. And as I stand behind the counter, watching steam swirl up from a freshly brewed cup of tea, I remind myself: for now, this is enough.