by Dean Drinkel
Lucien made his hands into fists. “No?”
“Not at all, it has something to do with this.”
He picked up the paper, laid it down before Lucien.
“What’s so speci...” Lucien started but then quickly stopped.
What was he looking at? It was a painting. Look like it had been painted by a madman...that irony wasn’t lost on him.
Red paint.
But it wasn’t paint; he could smell it from here.
Blood.
A crimson butterfly.
“Do you know the significance of this?” the doctor asked. “He has become obsessed, absolutely obsessed by that image. He was even caught trying to cut it into his thigh a couple of nights ago.”
Lucien’s throat was dry, like sandpaper. He wanted to talk but it was impossible. Eventually he just shrugged.
“That is a pity,” the doctor began. “I was hoping you might be able to shed some light upon it. He becomes extremely agitated by the image and yet, he can’t stop painting, drawing, sketching it. It is butterfly after butterfly after butterfly, it is most annoying. Though of course, to Louvois, it is absolutely terrifying.” He leant over, picked up the painting, folded it up, lay it before him. “Oh well,” he smiled. “I’m sure we will work through it in time...if we have time of course...he has to have round the clock supervision now, he can’t be trusted to be left alone.” He began playing with his ball-bearing toy again. “And you’re sure you couldn’t spare five minutes? It really would do him the world of good...”
Lucien stood up, he was trying to keep control of his body, he was shaking. “I’m sorry, I really need to go...I’m not feeling well...I need to...get out of here. Give him my best.”
He raced out of the door, he knew the doctor was calling after him but he wasn’t listening, he needed...
...he needed...
...to get away from that damned butterfly.
Interlude
They were led through a labyrinth, a maze of small rooms – bathrooms, shower-rooms, steam rooms. Upstairs, downstairs...along corridors...then in the final room, each of them was asked in turn to lie down on a massage table where their flesh was beaten, pounded, stretched and pulled.
“What is the point of this?” Louvois asked.
“Your flesh has been scrubbed, you will be clean of impurities, and your body must be supple.” Was the reply – and it was right something must have worked because suddenly Lucien felt much much better.
Nobody said another word, nobody dared speak...when they had all had their turn, they were led to another room where they were told to sit and wait.
It was bare save for a small table where apples, oranges, lemons and other fruit had been laid out. There were also flowers. Everywhere. There was one large white candle on the table - that was the only illumination.
The boys were alone.
Lucien walked to the far wall, a small crucifix hung there – there was no other decoration.
“What the fuck is going on?” he asked as he turned around.
Henri smiled. “We are truly blessed, we have been chosen. We will be first, we will bear witness.”
“What are you talking about?” Louvois asked.
Henri held out his wrist, pointed to a long white grin which ran across the skin.
“What’s that?” Lucien approached.
“The Creator did this,” he stated, obviously very proud.
“Why?”
One of the other boys, Charles, grabbed hold of Louvois. “What do you mean why?”
“He means exactly that: why?” Lucien’s anger was rising.
Charles pointed to a scar on his breast, just up from the nipple. It was still pink, so was fairly recent. “I have this to show for my last visit. And this...” He reddened slightly as he pointed to a small fleshy mass on his scrotum. “The Creator loved me so much that night that is why he bit me...”
“Bit you? BIT you?” Lucien sounded outraged.
“And he did this to me, look!” Philippe spun around, motioned to his back. There was a criss-cross of lacerations running down his spine to the ‘v’ of his buttocks.
“I’m getting out of here,” Lucien went to the door, tried the handle. But it was locked as he knew it probably would be. “There must be another way in...or out...look for one will you.”
Louvois went to do as Lucien had asked but Henri grabbed him. “Sorry, what do you think you are doing?” He turned to Lucien. “And you, don’t you realise you are blessed? You have to accept that...”
Lucien shook his head. “I’m not accepting anything. I have no idea who you are, or who put you in charge...I don’t know why I am here and maybe that’s not important right now but one thing I am certain of is that I’m going to try my best to get out of here.”
Philippe rubbed his hands on his stomach, a pained expression on his face. “We don’t understand either, we just accept it.”
“Can you smell that?” Lucien breathed in, he was sure...cigars.
Henri clasped his hands together. “It is the Creator. He is close. He is being prepared.”
“Prepared? For what?” He scratched his head.
“Haven’t you understood anything?” Charles asked. “For us! We are his children. He wants to love each and every one of us. The Creator wants to save us all. Blessed be His name.”
Lucien stared at him then shook his head. “You’re insane. Every fucking one of you...” He went to continue but Henri lashed out, slapping him across the jaw. He fell to the floor, caught though by Philippe. Lucien quickly gathered his wits about him and was ready to hit back but then Louvois started to cry and all attention was focused on him, diffusing the building tension.
“There there, it will be alright, it will all be over soon,” Charles hugged the sobbing boy.
“Can you hear that?” Henri stood proud. “The opera...” He slicked back his hair.
“And what’s the importance of that exactly?” Lucien asked rubbing his jaw. It hadn’t been a hard slap but it smarted all the same. He wasn’t sure when but he would make sure that sometime in the future that boy Henri would get it!
One thing was true - music could be heard playing in another room.
The door was unlocked and opened, the boys – even Henri (was all that bravado just for show?) backed away.
Five white clad men entered, taking the hand of each of them.
“The Creator is ready and waiting for you. For each and every one of you,” one of them stated.
Lucien thought about making a bolt for it but realistically where could he go? For now the best thing to do was keep his head down and do as the others did then when the opportunity presented itself (which invariably it would) then that would be the right time for his escape.
Not fighting it, he was led to the door and he followed the others.
Now that was strange because they were in a different room to the one they had come through earlier – how had that happened?
This was a very opulently decorated bedroom, with tapestries, paintings, an expensive looking cabinet against the far wall but as it was a bedroom, that meant a bed and there, in the centre of the room, it was. A very large four-poster, velvet drapes hung above it.
“What the fu...” Lucien whispered, but the man beside him (Kotcheff?) motioned for him to be silent.
That was because there on the bed, lying down, propped up against the pillows was an old man. His skin appeared ancient, his flesh corpulent, his hair lank and his nails long.
He was fully dressed.
A priest.
In his basket, a French-Bulldog stirred.
“Welcome,” the priest puffed on his cigar. “I am the Creator.”
Six
The kid was in the karaoke bar. As it happened he wasn’t half bad – he’d been singing a succession of old Frank Sinatra ballads – in English too! He had even got most of the pronunciations correct.
Lucien found himself a quiet seat in the shadows and sat down, a w
aiter (obviously from Gascony, what with that nose, large forehead and ponytail) appeared, gave him a plastic folder full of songs, a pen and some small strips of paper. He shook his head, he didn’t feel like singing tonight (did he ever?) but he ordered himself a small beer. The waiter put down the pen and paper on his table, just in case.
The kid finished his song (My Way), bowed to a rapturous applause then joined a large group of other teenagers. Next up was an Englishman, the opening bars of Touch Me by The Doors began and it was evident that he knew all the words.
But Lucien wasn’t there to listen to songs - he was here for...
...the kid, who was smartly dressed, a blazer, a shirt collar poked up from under a blue jumper, expensive jeans, brown boots; groomed to an inch of his life as well. He pulled back one of his sleeves, ah, what was that...some line of text tattooed there, it was a bit too far (and in a Cyrillic font) to actually make out.
The waiter reappeared, sat down the beer, Lucien mumbled thanks and once the damn guy had got out of his way, he noticed that the kid had vanished...damn!
No.
No need to panic, he’d just moved his seat that was all, he was now sitting in the other part of the bar, away from his friends (though he must have meant to return because he had left his jacket lying on the stool and his glasses on the table) and chatting to some men playing at the pool table.
The Englishman finished his song – also a good reception from the crowd – before a couple of non-descript Americans (students more than likely and very very drunk) took over and murdered some semi-popular rock song from the 1980s.
Lucien turned back to the object of his affection, wondered why he now sat there with his back to his friends. There was something strange about his movements, the way he was sitting, the way he was sipping his drink (vodka or gin, he surmised).
The kid got up, kissed an approaching girl on both cheeks before taking a look at his watch.
Lucien peered around the column which threatened to block out his view. Was the kid leaving? It certainly looked like it, he was now out of his seat, shaking hands, kissing – he turned, headed past the warbling Yanks, waved to the group of people where he had left his jacket and glasses and then headed outside (what was all that about? Why had he left his belongings with the others? Was he that trusting?).
Lucien quickly downed his beer, took out a ten Euro note, threw it down on the table and ran out of the bar, onto the street,
He looked this way and that.
“Fuck!” Had he lost him...no, over there, a row of scooters, there was the kid, sitting on one, about to put his helmet on.
Lucien sprinted over.
The kid looked up, saw him, stared for a moment (was that a look of disbelief) then shook his head, put his helmet on.
Lucien reached out, grabbed the kid’s arm. “Romain,” he said.
“I can’t do this Lucien; in fact, I don’t want to do it.” He went to shut down the visor, but Lucien blocked him.
“Romain, you have to listen to me...” He reached out but Romain hit his brother’s arm away.
“I don’t have to do anything Lucien, you gave up that right.”
“Please...bro...”
Romain laughed. “Brother? That’s rich; you ceased to be my brother a long time ago.”
“Don’t be like that...I understand you’re angry...”
“ANGRY?! You haven’t got the first fucking idea!”
Lucien frowned. “We can work this out, I promise you...look, I need to tell you something I received a letter, I’m going awa...”
Romain slapped Lucien’s hand. “You have proved time and time again that your promises mean nothing.” He fiddled with the chin strap of his helmet but then changed his mind, whipped it off, it fell to the ground.
Lucien went to pick it up. “Leave it!” Romain ordered, but nonetheless Lucien stopped it with his feet.
“Once you made me a promise, do you remember that? About the monster, about the monster you said that didn’t exist but yet you would still protect me from, do you remember that? Do you?”
There was such venom in the younger boy’s eyes that Lucien had to look away; he stared at the helmet by his feet.
“I’m asking you Lucien, do you remember?”
“Yes, yes I do.”
“You swore you would protect me, well guess what? You fucking didn’t!” Romain tilted his head, pulled away the shirt collar.
“No...Romain...no...I...”
“You have no words Lucien because now, I’m like you...the monster did to me what he did to you...you have no fucking words. You told me that fucker didn’t exist, you promised you’d protect me, well you didn’t...you fucking didn’t!”
Romain swung his leg over the scooter, bent down, picked up the helmet. Lucien attempted to help him but Romain was having none of it, fastened the helmet under his chin, got properly back on the scooter, kick-started the engine.
“Come on Romain, we need to talk, we need to talk about all of this.”
“Get the fuck out of my way Lucien; I don’t want to see you ever again.”
“Please, don’t be like that...I’m so...sorry, there were things you didn’t understand, things I couldn’t control, it wasn’t easy for me...I had to go away...I had my iss...”
“We all know about your fucking issues Lucien, I had them up to here.” He banged the top of his helmet for added effect. “I won’t tell you again, get the fuck out of my way, I have to be somewhere, I’m late already. Oh and one more thing, you are the spitting image of our father, imagine the fucking irony in that...all your life you’ve fought against it...oh the sweet irony...”
He bared his teeth, they weren’t as sharp as Lucien’s but they were there all the same.
Brother stared at brother until eventually Lucien stepped to one side, Romain re-angled the front wheel, released the throttle and drove away.
Lucien watched him disappear into the night before eventually turning on his heels and heading off in the other direction.
He wondered why Romain wore a butterfly necklace around his neck, what point was he trying to prove and to who?
Interlude
On the bed, the Creator feasted. His tunic was open, blood was smeared all over his face, and some had dropped down to his chest and his stomach.
He snarled as he chewed on the meat, he took another bite then threw the rest of it towards the basket. The bulldog barked as it launched itself as far as its leash would allow, it grappled with the meat between its jaws and then scampered back as it ate.
What the meat was, nobody said, but everybody guessed....
“What do they call you?” the Creator asked, a long nailed finger pointed.
“Charles,” the boy replied, trying to keep his voice steady.
“I like you.” The Creator licked his lips, patted the side of the bed. “Come and lie beside me.” He leant over, took his cigar from the ashtray one of the men held and put it between those swollen lips. He grabbed the glass of wine he was offered, a large sip – some of it spilling down his chin. He didn’t bother wiping it up.
Charles didn’t move but the man behind him pushed him forward.
“Reluctant? Surprises me, I thought you had been here before!” The Creator laughed as he gave the wine back and took a large puff on his cigar. “Hurry up boy, I haven’t got all night and I want to remind myself of your flesh, I wonder if it is as succulent as it was before.”
With some trepidation, Charles made his way onto the bed.
“That’s it, closer, closer. Come, beside me, that’s it.”
Charles did as he was ordered. A hand went between his legs, to cover his modesty but it was a little too late for all that now.
“Nice, nice...” The Creator laid a hand on Charles’ head, played with his hair. The boy did his best not to flinch.
“I have seen you before haven’t I?” he asked.
“Yes,” Charles whispered.
“Then you know what is expected.
”
“Yes Creator.” Charles moved his hands from his genitals. Slowly he began to jerk himself into an erection. The Creator couldn’t take his eyes away, his nostrils flared, he started rubbing between his own legs.
“Let me try,” the Creator said as it was apparent Charles’ body was not reacting the way he required. He ran a hand down the boy’s body, across the thin splattering of pubic hair, to the base of his penis.
“STOP THAT!” a voice cried. “You shouldn’t be touching him like that.”
The Creator, perhaps surprised at being spoken to like that, did as he was asked.
“Who? Who dared to speak to me like that?”
Nobody moved, nobody stepped forward, nobody said a word.
The Creator scowled. “You know what will happen if you don’t answer me.”
“It was me, I spoke.” Henri stepped forward, bowed.
“You?”
“Yes, Creator. I was jealous, I wish to be Transformed, I wish to become...”
“Move aside.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I am in not in the habit of repeating myself. I said, move aside. It was not you that spoke, it was another.”
As Henri did as he was told, one of the men grabbed Lucien, kicked his backside. He held a knife to his throat. “It was this one.”
Lucien took this opportunity to fight, to try and break free but the man’s grip was too tight, too strong. He stamped on his assailant’s foot and kicked his shin though they were only small victories.
The Creator chuckled. “This is what I like...spirit! No, don’t harm him...I can smell new flesh...out of my way!” He signalled Charles to get off the bed, which he gladly did.
“And what do they call you my pretty little angel?” He motioned for the man to remove his hand from Lucien’s mouth.
“Moncrieff. Lucien Moncrieff.”
The Creator reached for him, Lucien moved slightly but the man held it in place, he ran a finger down the boy’s cheek, under his chin, along his throat, the top of his chest.
