In The End (Butterfly #1)

by Isabella Redwood

  The room overlooked the side of the house where a wooden structure with play swings, slides and climbing frames were sited. I imagined the boys playing there, wind blowing through their hair, making forts and clambering along the monkey bars. I sighed and something caught my eye, it was a picture of Nicholi and a child who was clearly his son. They were eating cotton candy at the fair and they looked so happy. I wanted to be a part of that picture, I imagined myself standing next to them. Not in a weird creepy way, just in a caring role, and decided then that I wanted to give this a try. Let’s face it, I had already been shot, what worse could happen?

  ‘Okay then.’ Nicholi had walked back into the bedroom. ‘Is that everything? Any other questions, comments, complaints?’ He picked up a stuffed animal from the bed, a ragged bear with half an ear missing and one paw looking like it was hanging by a thread. ‘Funny,’ he began. ‘Just a year ago Jacob would not go anywhere without this bear, I once had to fly back from a business trip as Jake had left him in my suitcase and would not go to sleep without him.’

  ‘They grow up so fast,’ I interjected. ‘My mom used to say that every evening after she had put me to bed, she would sit for a moment next to my bed and just watch me sleep because before she knew it I would be moved out, living my own life.’ I pondered for a moment, looking around the room; there were no pictures of a woman. I wondered what had happened to Jacob’s mother, but felt it was not my place to ask and left my thought there. Nicholi turned towards the door and I followed, taking one last look at the picture on the nightstand and closed the door quietly behind me.

  ‘I guess I will go pack my things now,’ I confirmed, as we headed down the main stairway.

  ‘Great,’ Nicholi gestured for Mr Saviour. ‘Can you arrange for Miss Nichols,’ I was about to interrupt and he corrected himself. ‘I mean, Sophia to have a new set of keys ready for the house and add her to the alarm system please.’ Mr Saviour gave a curt nod and sauntered off.

  ‘I don’t think he likes me very much,’ I said aloud, not directing it specifically to anyone.

  ‘Earl is a bit old-fashioned, shall we say.’ Nicholi reached for the alarm panel on the door and entered a code then scanned his thumbprint. The door clicked open in response and he moved toward it. ‘He thinks hiring anyone under the age of fifty is unacceptable and a beautiful woman, now that is simply preposterous.’ Nicholi closed the door behind us and I paused. Beautiful woman, was he calling me a beautiful woman? I stopped before I embarrassed myself any further and realising we were out of the house and I did not have a cell phone to call a cab, I came back quickly to reality.

  ‘Oh, I need to call a cab, home.’ I corrected myself. ‘The house.’ I looked up at Nicholi, hoping he would offer the use of his phone without me having to ask. He was tall, very tall, over six foot like his brother, but unlike him his hair was dark, and offset against the sapphire blue eyes it was very striking.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Nicholi countered. ‘We will take my car.’

  ‘We? As in you’re coming too?’ I was trying to recall the state of the house as I left this morning, declaring this a very bad idea.

  ‘Yes we, I will help you move your belongings. In your condition I’m guessing that an extra pair of hands wouldn’t harm, no?’ he retorted, though it was not far from the truth; I still questioned the ramifications of this decision. Fired before I even started, no wait, that has already happened; and with that thought, I took out the cheque from my jacket pocket.

  ‘Here is your cheque back, I’m not sure why I received it and I don’t want to know.’ I was talking to Nicholi’s back now as he had already started off towards one of the garages to retrieve the car.

  He parked the silver Range Rover inches from me and opened the door for me to enter. I placed the cheque in the storage area next to the cup holder and sat down. I struggled to reach across for the seat belt and sensing this; Nicholi leaned in and completed the task. I heard the audible click, and he started the engine again. We began driving back up the road heading for the gates before either one of us spoke. Nicholi was the first to break the silence.

  ‘I think you should reconsider keeping the cheque,’ he began. ‘After what happened, you definitely earned it.’ Regret tinged his voice yet I hardly noticed as a searing pain shot through my arm from the seatbelt digging into my shoulder as I leaned to retrieve the cheque and tore it in two.

  ‘I work for the money I receive.’ I looked across and saw him tense in response, sigh and clear his throat. He replied simply with an, okay. The rest of the journey was silent, me processing the day’s events and him, I do not know what he was thinking, but caught occasional glances my way as though he was checking I was still breathing.

  We arrived at the house about forty-five minutes later and pulled up behind Betty. In comparison to the brand new Range Rover, Betty looked like a relic, but she was dependable and that is all you need from a car. Nicholi got out of the car and walked around to open my door. I flinched as he reached across to unbuckle my seatbelt and he froze before looking up and finishing the task.

  ‘Sorry,’ he began. ‘I didn’t mean to scare you.’ The colour had drained out of his face and he looked very despondent.

  ‘No, sorry, it’s fine honestly, thank you.’ I was starting to waffle and tried to redirect. ‘We should make a start,’ I gestured towards the gate and rummaged for the keys that were hidden by a Mount Everest-sized pile of junk in my bag. Note to self, clean bag, and with that thought, I turned the key in the door.

  I had lived in the house for two years after moving out of my parents’ home in Seattle. It was a typical townhouse design in the area with three steps leading up to the porch and overhead a sloping roof. The paint on the porch had been peeling when I moved in, but now it was shedding as a sheep dog would in the desert. The days I had just sat under the porch listening to the rain pounding down overhead and wondering how I would make my next card payment. Those days were behind me now; with the salary I would receive, I would be able to pay off all my debts within eighteen months. I felt a blast of heat from the sun on my back as I pushed the door open, having to right myself with the force it took, the bills piling under the frame.

  ‘Sophia,’ Nicholi began staring at the pile of red envelopes on the floor. ‘Did the postman put the whole street’s letters through your door?’ looking somewhat perplexed at the river of letters flowing back, like water escaping from a dam that was holding it captive.

  ‘Just ignore them, I do,’ I replied, flushing crimson with embarrassment for not throwing them in the trash before I left this morning.

  ‘They look very demanding,’ Nicholi began, but I interrupted.

  ‘They are threatening for sure,’ I proclaimed. Nicholi looked up quickly and I swear I saw concern on his face.

  ‘Threatening? How so?’ he replied, questioning further.

  ‘Well that one there,’ I pointed at the first red envelope. ‘Wants to skin me alive, that one over there wants to devour me and this one,’ I picked up the envelope resting under my foot, ‘Wants to hang, draw and quarter me.’ I was trying to lighten the mood, and it was working. Nicholi smiled and walked through the doorway into the living area. It was a two-storey property with the living area and kitchen downstairs and two bedrooms with one and a half baths upstairs.

  Although I had technically shared the house with my friend Jessica, she was rarely there, and as such surveying the room now, I realised that the house was decorated to my taste. All the walls were white except the turquoise feature wall above the fireplace; the focal point of the room was lined with photographs. Mine, of course, some of my family, vacations I had taken as a child and a framed picture of my grandparents’ house had pride of place above the fireplace. They lived on a horse ranch in Colorado and the green lush landscape gave a fresh feel to the room.

  I had forgotten I was not alone for a moment until Nicholi broke the silence and I startled in response.

  ‘It’s chilly in here,’ he ann
ounced. ‘Is it okay if I turn the heat on?’ he asked, rubbing his hands together to generate some warmth.

  ‘Sure,’ I replied and was just about to move towards the thermostat, which was oddly located in the downstairs cupboard, but Nicholi had already walked across and was adjusting the heat up, something I had not done in a long time. The boiler groaned in response, and the pipes were straining to push the heat through, like old muscles and tendons suddenly expected to run a marathon. The noise caught my attention at first, but then something odd occurred to me.

  ‘How did you know where the thermostat was?’ I spoke in a low tone and wondered if Nicholi had heard me, as he did not respond initially.

  ‘I am a structural engineer, Sophia, it’s obvious to me really,’ he shrugged noncommittally, though I thought I caught a fleck of doubt in his tone, but decided it was just hunger and exhaustion-fuelled speculation.

  ‘Really, oh my brother is too,’ I explained. ‘He is working overseas at the moment helping those affected by disasters and violence to rebuild.’

  ‘That must be very rewarding,’ Nicholi started, but seemed to be distracted looking at the photos on the fireplace mantel.

  I caught a glimpse at the clock in the kitchen and determined it was time to eat and have some more painkillers; my shoulder, once a dull ache, was now throbbing in unison with my stomach growling. Heading to the cabinet I surveyed the options, one tin of beans, some pickles and one pop tart, slim pickings for sure. Nicholi, returning the picture he had been looking at, followed me into the kitchen and on witnessing the offerings available suggested we should order pizza. My appetite was returning fast, and I was ravenous, pizza would certainly fill the cavernous hole. We decided on a half and half. My section would be filled with chicken, sweetcorn, mushroom and pineapple and Nicholi picked BBQ chicken with extra peppers. Realising his meal was in imminent danger from my voracious appetite he decided to play it safe and ordered additional sides of fries with garden salad.

  The pizza was on its way and with my mouth watering in anticipation; I re-joined Nicholi to continue the packing process. He was placing the contents of the bookshelf in boxes and I proceeded to wrap the picture frames in newspaper for safety purposes. I reached for the copy that had been pushed through the letterbox this morning and something caught my eye. The front-page news stated that a body had been recovered from the Connecticut River and the FBI had been called in to investigate due to the brutal nature of the murder. These headlines, though rare, were not unheard of; we had some large cities close by, including New York.

  What I saw next sent shivers down my spine and I dropped the picture frame I had been holding, which ricocheted across the hard wood floor and shattered, scattering shards throughout the room. I had only seen him five days ago, and it was a face that had terrorised my dreams since. The photograph was him, the man who had shot me.

  Moving Day

  I stared at the image in the newspaper, the events of that night flooding through me forcefully, like a river trying to burst its bank.

  ‘Sophia, what happened?’ Nicholi appeared in front of me, his hand resting on my arm as though to steady me.

  ‘It’s him, it’s him,’ was all I managed to mouth, suddenly realising that I did indeed feel like I was swaying under the weight of all the emotions, as a new sapling would in its first real storm.

  ‘It is him who?’ Nicholi reached for the newspaper I was holding, my knuckles white from tension.

  ‘The man who shot me, it is him,’ I near shouted, finally finding my voice. Nicholi managed to retrieve the newspaper from my death grip and reassuring himself I was no longer in danger of passing out, scanned the front page. He seemed to process the information slowly, or that was my assumption, before he verbalised a response.

  ‘Are you sure it is him?’ he almost whispered, his stature tense and unyielding.

  ‘Absolutely, I will not forget that face any time soon,’ I replied, taking a deep breath to steady myself.

  ‘Well it looks like he got what he deserved then,’ Nicholi remarked, returning to the box structure he had created and resumed the packing process.

  ‘Does anyone deserve that?’ I recalled some of the details, fingers and teeth missing, beat senselessly. ‘That is what the judicial system is for, is it not?’ I questioned, concerned by Nicholi’s response yet deep down part of me had felt the exact same way a few years back. Counselling and time had made me think differently, and I shuddered, shutting back memories that were now trying to infiltrate. Not the night five days ago, but that night five years ago. I was saved from my memories by the whimpering of the doorbell, the pizza had arrived.

  The doorbell, like many things in the house, was in need of some major overhaul, something no doubt the new owners would commence. Nicholi, on hearing the doorbell, headed over immediately, paying the pizza delivery guy who strutted off very happy and placed the haul of food on the table. I was no longer ravenous, thanks to the recent news events, but knew I had to eat so I took a slice of pizza and sat down. The pizza was delicious, sliding down without much effort, and I felt my energy levels slowly revive. Nicholi turned to face me.

  ‘In answer to your question, the judicial system is meant to protect and provide appropriate punishment, but it would seem different agendas can often be at play and I have seen many an article confirming this.’ Nicholi started on his pizza, adding fries and salad to his lunchtime menu and seemed to be distracted, not by the news that we had just heard, no, something else. At first I thought he was mentally noting where the glass had scattered for clean up, but no, it was not that. He kept looking at the pictures we had yet to process for packing; one in particular seemed to have all his attention.

  ‘That picture,’ he finally spoke, but stalled and seemed reluctant to continue. This surprised me. He had never looked lost for words before. ‘The one on the end, who is that? He looks really familiar.’ Realising exactly which picture he was now referring to made me lose my appetite, and I waited to respond. This was not something I ever talked about, especially with someone I barely knew. Yes, we had come a long way with the whole me being shot part in terms of building our employer-employee relationship, but we had certainly not reached this level.

  Sensing my change in demeanour and lack of a reply Nicholi shifted to stand, took another slice of pizza out of the box and picking up the broom that was resting peacefully in the kitchen, began to clear up the glass.

  ‘I should go start upstairs,’ I declared, grabbing an empty box, and scrambled out of that room as fast as my legs could carry me. I arrived on the first floor and proceeded to start the packing process in my bedroom. I opened my closet door and picked up the empty suitcase just sitting there begging for some excitement.

  I had not travelled in quite a few years, except internally within the United States. The list of places I had been to was pathetically short and included my birthplace the United Kingdom, Seattle, Colorado and Canada. I unzipped the case, placing it on the bed, and proceeded to fill it with my extremely modest contents.

  Material things had never been of particular importance to me; books and pictures were what I treasured, not designer shoes, bags or clothing. Not that there is anything wrong with those things, it just was not of importance to me, and surveying my attire now you would never have been more certain of that fact. I was wearing blue faded jeans and a white round-neck top. Plain and simple was my style of choice and comfortable too. I could never fathom why women would put themselves through torture wearing stiletto heels or the like.

  I had managed to fit the contents of my closet comfortably into the suitcase without issue and returning to collect the last garment, I saw the item I had hidden way back into the depths of the closet. The black dress would have stuck out like a sore thumb in my clothing collection had it not been relegated to the back recess of the closet. Not because of its colour, black was a staple in my wardrobe, no, it was designer, elegant and understated and a purchase that had been thrust upon me by
a friend of my mom’s, stating I must have something respectable to wear for the day. I remembered going to the clothing store with her, the last place I wanted to be generally, but on this day even more so. “All eyes are on you,” she had proclaimed, insisting I must find a dress to fit the occasion.

  I was not a violent person at all, but listening to her saying, occasion, as if we were going to a fancy ball or an elegant party was driving me insane. No eyes were on me that day, well if they were I did not notice. Blinded by tears flowing without regard, my eyes were firmly fixed on the three coffins in front of me.

  I was disturbed from my reminiscing by the sounds of creaking floorboards. That was definitely something I would not miss about this house. The creaking floorboards had caused many a panic during the night with the inevitable flashlight by the bed moment, checking that no one was there before cocooning myself in the duvet and longing for the feeling of security. The only thing I have wanted for as long as I could remember.

  Nicholi knocked on the open door. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to pry, I know how that feels as a recipient and would never want to be the cause.’ He sounded sincere and worried. I turned to face him and smiled.

  ‘Don’t worry about it,’ I began. That was all I was saying on that matter and proceeded to change the subject before any rebuttal question followed. ‘How’s the packing going downstairs?’ I questioned, looking at Nicholi, and noticing under the ray of light that had penetrated the poorly fitted blind and set forth like a beacon in the night to illuminate the now occupied doorway, he looked very attractive. The light was dancing in his hair, emphasising the rustic tones that were present in most hair that dark. Willing more light to come dance with it and enjoy its occupation of the room, despite the obvious shielding effect the blind was designed to perform.