by A J Wolf
Drip. Drip. Drip.
A good girl. I snort, lips twisting at my mother. That’s not possible; nothing I ever do is good enough for my parents. I am never good enough for them. My eyes land on my father's unblinking gaze from where I stand near his chair. It's a nice change to not hear him slinging around his insults and disappointment at my behavior. That's all he ever fucking does, all he ever has to say to me. I hear the floorboards creak as my mother takes a step into the room, and my attention turns back to her. Her hands are shaking despite the confident bite of her tone just moments ago. Is she scared? What the fuck could she possibly be scared for? I'm the one going to be punished, not her. "Why are you trembling?"
Drip. Drip. Drip.
She ignores my question, eyes flickering between my hand and my face. "Knock this off right now, young lady!" One of her hands is clutching a pleat in her long skirt, the other gripping the doorframe like she needs the support to keep from toppling over.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
The crease in her brow lightens just a bit when I step forward in her direction, then quickly deepens when she realizes I'm not coming to her. My foot steps into something warm and wet when I pass my father's chair, toes sticking to the floor as I walk to the candle on the shelf. Letting the hammer I was holding slip through my fingers to my feet, I reach for it. The hot glass burns against my palms as I cradle it to my chest, but I don’t mind, taking a deep breath to inhale its scent. It smells like sugared donuts, far too pleasant to be in a hell hole like this. I look back at my father, his silent face staring back at me. "No."
I look at my mother, "Do you think I'm crazy?" She stutters, a drop of sweat dripping down her brow. "Do you think I'm crazy?!" I scream it at her, making her jump.
"Nnn..No. You're not crazy, Hadley."
My eyes narrow on her, the tremble in her hands growing. "Then why do you make me take pills? If you don't think I'm crazy, why did you, mother, have doctor Steven remove my uterus?!"
"You had a medical condition; we didn't have a choice." Her eyes keep going to my father, and I scoff.
"I heard you, mother. I heard you both. You couldn't bear the thought of me, your broken daughter having children." I'm still holding the candle in my hands, the skin burning the longer it sits. But I don't care, it grounds me.
"You are a vile, evil child, Hadley. You are sick. Your father and I knew you could never be allowed to reproduce. You are not normal, something is wrong with you!" She screams it at me, getting brave enough to step farther into the room toward my father.
"You created me, mother. What does that make you?" Her outburst stuns me silent, my hands trembling so hard the candle almost falls to the ground. I pinch it harder to keep from losing it.
Eyeing me a moment, she bolts at my father, and I let her, moving to take her place at the door. She trips on the hammer I dropped, the one I used to bust my way into his study, almost falling before she catches onto the arm of his chair. She frantically starts trying to untie him, her feet splashing in the gas that's dripping down from his body and the chair. She rips the binding from his mouth, and I meet his gaze over her shoulder, "No!"
I let the candle drop from my hands, the glass bouncing and rolling in the gasoline. It sparks up, a hot rapid path that zips straight to my parents. My mother screams, falling back on her ass as the flames eat her up, my father trying to break from his bines as he wales in agony. I reach into the room, grabbing onto the handle to shut the door. "I am normal."
"I am normal!" I scream it as his lifeless body, chest heaving as I stare down at him.
"Hadley."
I startle at the voice, eyes wide as they jump to Rhys standing before me. "It's not what it looks like, Butterfly."
My fingers tremble against the knife, blood pooling around my knees as his cornflower eyes sear through my flesh with his anger. "I think we know who the real butterfly is, don't we?"
I shake my head, dropping the knife as I stand in the pool of blood, slowly eating up my kitchen floor. "It's not like that. This was an accident."
He laughs, a cruel, loud sound that vibrates in my ears. "An accident? How the fuck do you stab someone that many fucking times and it be an accident? Fucking damn it, Hadley!" He steps into the blood, one of his sneakers kicking Kyler's body between us. His hand snaps out, grabbing my cheeks painfully in his hands. "What did I fucking tell you? Huh?" He throws my face away, and I stumble backward, catching myself on the counter. "What did I tell you at the diner?"
He pulls out his phone, angrily dialing while I watch. "If you lose it, we both do." He brings the phone to his ear, "77843 E Redburrow St. You’ll find the Butterfly Killer and the newest victim." He ends the call, tossing the phone onto the floor. Any minute now, my house will be swamped with every police officer in Rivercrest Landing.Part of me feels oddly relieved, while the other is screaming. Rhys's hands grab at his hair, eyes landing on me. I don't need to look at my ring to know he's disappointed. "I didn't kill those women."
His hand drops from his head, eyes narrowing on my face. "Then who did?"
I swallow, eyes falling to Kyler's body. "You."
He laughs again, and the sound bounces off the wall. "Bold, coming from the woman who just stabbed her casual fuck to death in her kitchen."
I wait until his eyes find mine, "Now what?" His gaze shifts over my head, and I look with him, red and blue lights reflecting off the trees outside of my bay window, signifying I've run out of time to figure this out.
He doesn't answer me.
My door is kicked down within a minute of seeing the lights, officers shouting to get on my knees and put my hands in clear sight. I drop down, my black denim soaking up the blood off the tile as I watch Rhys drop to his. His gaze meets mine for a mere second before officers are swarming me, making me lose sight of him.
My hands are slapped with cuffs, an officer in my ear barking so loudly I can't hear anything else. "You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you..."
I’m walked out of my house and toward a waiting patrol car. I try to look for Rhys as we move, my head swiveling, but I can't see him. I'm pushed down into the car, and my door is slammed shut. It's moving almost the second I get in, my eyes stuck on my house and the second patrol, thinking maybe that's where they put Rhys. I stare until it's out of sight, and I'm forced to face forward. My hands are still trembling; my mood stone a mix of blues. I don't know what to expect, and it's unnerving.
"Why'd you do it?"
My attention is drawn to the officer in the passenger seat. He’s facing me, waiting for me to answer. When I don't, he shakes his head, turning back around. I rest my head against the window, the glass cool against my head. I didn't answer him, because I don't even know. Why did I do it?
I'm hauled out of the police car by my elbow, a hand pressing down the top of my head, so I don't hit the lip of the frame. Despite officers lining the outskirts of the building, news crews are lining every available corner, lights flashing, and people shouting questions I can't quite hear. A female detective steps in front of me and I look at the officer holding my cuffs briefly, before she meets my gaze over her shoulder, waving toward some other officers. They swarm around us, creating a barricade of bodies to block me out of sight.
Once inside, they split off, leaving me with my bodyguard and the detective once more. I'm brought into a bright room with ugly mint green walls, where I'm patted down by two female officers, stripped of my clothing, and handed a very drab tan uniform. Once changed, my fingerprints are stamped and pressed, my mouth swabbed for a DNA sample, and I'm stuck in front of the camera for mug shots. I'm then very unceremoniously dumped into an interrogation room and left to twiddle my thumbs. It's all unremarkably drab and unexciting.
The same detective as before steps into the room, smoothing out her crisp white button-up as she sits in the chair opposite
me. "I'm Detective Porter. I've been following your case for some time, Hadley."
I don't say anything, just turn my face to stare at the one way mirror and my reflection looking back at me. I can feel their eyes on me, the other officers and detectives chomping at the bit to know more about the infamous Butterfly Killer.
"I have to say, we didn't expect the Butterfly Killer to be a woman."
My eyes flick to hers. "It's not."
Her lips part, head tilting ever so slightly with confusion. Her eyes dart between the mirror and me. "Are you not the Butterfly Killer?"
I lick my lips, raise my cuffed hands to brush away a stray hair that was tickling my cheek. "No."
Another quick glance toward the mirror and back. "Then who is? We know you were the one that killed Kyler, Hadley. We know you made the pho..."
"Rhys Elliot. He is the Butterfly Killer, and he called Kyler’s murder in."
She shakes her head, clearly confused with what I'm telling her. She must be dense. "You're trying to tell me that you did not kill the women that were murdered in Rivercrest Landing?"
I don't answer her, not right away, making her sit in my silence as I link my fingers over the table. "You're not going to get the answers you're looking for."
She lets out a loud breath, head ducking down for just a moment. "We don't have to be enemies here, Hadley. I just want to get to understand you. Why can't you answer me?"
I turn my face to look at my reflection once more. "Even if I wanted to tell you, Detective Porter, I can't."
"This is a safe space, Hadley. It's just you and me here. Help me, and I'll help you."
My eyes leave the one way mirror, falling over the detective sitting across from me. She's staring at me expectantly, wishing for an answer I'm not going to give her any time soon. Or ever. Her eyes drift toward the window, slowly coming back to land on me like she's unsure how to proceed.
"Why did you become a murderer, Hadley? Why did you decide to be the Butterfly serial killer?" Again with this tedious question.
"Do you know anything about Rabbits detective?" She shakes her head, but I'm already talking before she's finished. "If a mother rabbit is stressed, hungry, bored, scared, or really many other frivolous things..." I pause, swipe my tongue over my bottom lip to relieve some of the dryness. "She'll eat her babies."
"If you're going to continue to waste my time, I don't see a reason for this talk." She starts to scoot her chair back, and I lift my cuffed hands from the table, the metal clanking against it as I crook my finger at her in a come hither motion.
Brows tilted in confusion, she casts a quick glance at the other officers through the paned mirror. She slowly rises from her chair, palms flat along the steel surface of the table as she leans toward me. I stand, and she watches, the rise and fall of her chest quickening with the action. Her body instinctively knowing it should be wary as I lean forward, my cheek just skimmer hers as my lips brush along her ear, "Some people are just born Unsettled."
"Wha..."
Her voice is cut off as my hand clamps around her throat, fingers digging into her soft pale flesh with such force my nails draw blood. I feed off of her panic, squeeze harder as her hands grab at mine, fingernails scratching my skin as she yanks on my arms. They always do that. Panic. There's probably a hundred different ways she could get out of my hold, but when that dark inky fear sinks in, they always lose all rational thoughts in their pathetic little heads.
I hear the shoes squeaking outside of the door, the shouts before they come busting in, and I tighten my grip on the detective's throat, soaking up her terror for just a few seconds longer. The door bangs against the wall, and I'm quickly ripped from the table and thrown backward, my head smacking roughly against the brick at my back. But I don't feel it; all of my attention is on the detective and the bloom of pretty little bruises marring her creamy skin. So fucking beautiful, it makes me smile.
She would have made such a pretty, pretty butterfly.
The detective's eyes catch mine for just a moment, a brilliant shade of emerald green brimming with tears. She's coughing, her hand clutching her throat as she tries to regain composure. I told her she wouldn't get the answers she was looking for. She should have listened.
"Where's Rhys?" I ask it as I'm yanked to my feet by an officer at my side. I've already asked this, one hundred times even, but no one has yet to answer me. "Where's the man who called the police?"
I watch the rough swallow the detective pushes down, she nods to the officer checking on her. He backs up, and I'm shoved into my chair once more, this time, with an officer at my back. "If you mean the victim, Kyler... "
"I'm not talking about fucking Kyler! I'm talking about Rhys. Are you stupid? The man who called you guys. He was there when the officers came into my house." I don't have my rings anymore, but I know I'm getting angry, my hands trembling so that the metal of my cuffs ting against the tabletop.
"There wasn't another person there, a woma.."
"Rhys called you!" I scream it, cutting off her sentence as my fists bang against the table. My heart is beating so quickly I'm starting to feel faint.
The detective holds her hands up while the other officers step forward at my aggression. She slowly grabs the back of her chair, pulling it back and taking a seat again. "I can see we're having a disconnect here, and I'm just trying to figure out the facts." I grit my teeth as she looks at the officer next to me then back. "When my officers got to the scene, there were only two people at your house, Hadley. You and Kyler. You're saying there was another man there?"
My eyes flit around the room, my chest rising and falling at a pace that can't be healthy for someone at rest. "Yes."
"And you say that this man, Rhys?" She waits for confirmation, and I nod. "Is who called the station to report the Butterfly Killer was in the middle of another murder?"
I blink at her, fingers squeezing tightly inside of my fists. "Yes."
Someone knocks on the door, opening it to bring in what looks like a tape recorder or voicemail box. They set it on the table in front of the Detective, and she nods to them with thanks before turning her attention back to me. "This is the recording of the call to the department. Are you saying this person is your Rhys?" She presses play, and before I can even think, the recording starts.
"77843 E Redburrow St the butter..."
I don't know what makes me do it, but something makes me launch forward to knock the recorder off the table, smashing it into the wall, so it breaks apart into pieces. I reach out for the detective, screaming a war cry as I'm ripped back by my ankles. I can't hear that recording. I don't want to know who called. I don't need to hear it. I already know it was my Rhys. It was Rhys, no one else.
My arms are pinned to my sides as I continue to scream, kicking the officer at my back in the shins. Jerking about, I break his hold, sprinting forward to grab at the Detective once more. I'm knocked to the ground by an officer, my face smashed into the cold tile as I glare up at Detective Porter. Her eyes are wide with what is undoubtedly fear, and I can't stop the ugly, barking laugh that leaves my chest. This woman wants to stand there and tear apart my reality, pick at the core of my very existence, but she is scared?
I'm fucking terrified. I don't know who I am. I don't have certainty in my future. I am a broken, sad girl who's puppet strings have finally become so tangled, the only choice I have at untangling them is by hacking at the frail strings with a cleaver. The one constant I have, the only person I have is on the brink of being ripped from me, and I refuse to let it happen.
I refuse to let it happen.
"Do you know what it's like, Detective Porter?" I yell it from the floor, my words slightly muffled from the pressure the forearm on my head is applying. "Do you know what it's like to be alone? To exist on this fucking floating rock and not have a single soul that gives a shit whether you live or die? From the moment I was conceived, I was branded insufficient. My oldest childhood memory is of my parents crying, crying because they
didn't know where they went wrong to get me for a child. I've had pills and anti-depressants shoved down my throat since I could swallow a fucking pill because I was born broken. I needed to be fixed." The forearm leaves my head, and I'm yanked up to my knees. "And do you know what Detective Porter?"
I'm allowed to stand, and she wipes a tear from her cheek, staring at me as I'm shuffled toward the doorway. "What?"
"They were right, Detective. I am broken. I do need to be fixed. I am unsettled." Spinning, I catch the officer at my back off guard, slamming the shard of metal that I’d picked up from the broken voice machine when I was pressed to the floor into the side of the officer's neck. Blood sprays along the mint green of the wall as he scrambles to dislodge it, his mouth gurgling.
I vaguely hear the detective screaming in the background as a gunshot rings out, my shoulder searing with agony, "Don't kill her! Don't shoot!"
My face is slammed against the wall as I'm grabbed once more, my shoulder screaming in pain as they press their weight into me. I'm slapped with another set of cuffs, my legs chained as medics scramble to grab the bleeding officer in the room. Being pulled from the wall, I grimace, eyes latching onto the detective as I'm drug past her. I'm stomped through the hall in a blur of ugly mint green walls and metal gates, my arm and chest starting to go numb with white-hot pain. I'm shoved into a jail room that's essentially a giant tin box, and what I assume is their version of solitary confinement as my cuffs are removed. I immediately grab my shoulder, seeing the blood on my hand when I pull it away.
"An EMT will come to look at your gunshot wound in a bit. Try not to die before then." Says the officer holding my cuffs, the one behind him muttering something about how I shouldn't even get treatment.
In answer, I spit at his feet and raise my bloody hand to flip them both off.
My hand drops at the click of the lock, and I stare at the back of the jail cell door for a while after they leave. Looking around the small cell, I move to sit on the bed, a hiss leaving my lips when I sit. Slowly laying on my uninjured side, I cradle my arm and curl my knees up. I'm exhausted, both mentally and physically. Although, it could be the blood loss. I pull my hand away, seeing only a little bit of fresh blood on my hand. It seems to be stopping, at least. My eyes lift to the overhead lights, I just want to sleep.
