Butterfly

by Rebecca Sherwin

  “No…”

  I thought there was nothing left of my world, but I was wrong. Whatever I had left falls away from me as Griffin squeezes the air from my lungs with a punishing hold on my windpipe. It has all been a lie. My entire life, since I was fifteen, has been some plan to make me the perfect puppet. The Stepford wife with no mind. The empty shell of a woman who lived to serve her man, forcing herself that love existed and she’d found it. Nothing has been real. Everything has been a lie. Cooper didn’t fill me in on the exact reason behind my kidnapping, and I thought the answer was as simple as the fact that his mind told him he had to have me. But there was so much more than that. He took me…he broke me, and tore everything I was apart…all because he wanted to protect me. He wanted to strip everything away so that when I discovered I had no idea who I was, and everyone who was supposed to love me had wanted nothing but to break me…it wouldn’t hurt.

  But he failed.

  Like I failed to send him home to his daughter, he failed to desensitise me to the pain. He’d done the opposite, making it so much more intense, because all I can remember is the power of his obsession that has morphed into an immortal love for the only man who could control me—because I want him to.

  I’m fucked.

  “So I’ll make a deal with you, now I’ve got a weapon I never expected to acquire. Cooper’s untimely interception gave us something…interesting to use.” I wince as he licks me. He fucking licks me, from the corner of my mouth, turned down in disgust and grief, to my hairline. Even his breath holds the stench of sadism. “Forget about Cooper. Play along in front of your family, and mine. Remember everything you’ve experienced, everything you’ve been taught and…” he chuckles, his hot breath feathering over the trail of his spit and making me gag. “I won't kill the winged gift.”

  “No!”

  “Oh yes.” He slaps my cheek. “I hadn’t realised you were so maternal, but now I know…play your part, Mouse, and I’ll let her live. I’ll even keep Rob from taking her.”

  “Please…”

  “Please what?”

  “I…” He lets me go and I cough and splutter, leaning down to hit my head on the dashboard and wake up from this nightmare. “I’ll be good.”

  “Sorry?”

  He fists my hair and yanks my head back, forcing me to look at him when I repeat my answer.

  “I’ll be good.”

  “Just as I thought.” He sits back in his seat and hums along to the radio. “Now, cover yourself up. You look disgusting.”

  Of course I do. Because I am disgusting. I did this—by opening my legs to my swim coach, and then by allowing Cooper burrow his way inside my soul.

  He succeeded. Even from beyond the grave, Cooper owns me.

  He did more than kill me on impulse and live to regret it for the rest of his life.

  He decimated me.

  They want life to move on as normal.

  Doctors. Therapists. Psychiatrists.

  Everyone tries to break into my mind, to find some slice of humanity, proof that I haven’t returned a ghost. They won’t find it. I won’t let them in.

  There’s a three-year-old little girl, the apple of her daddy’s eye, the reason he lived—and died, relying on me to protect her, and I won’t let her down. I won’t let them find anything, slamming the door of my fortress and throwing away the key.

  “How was your day, Erin?” Mum asks, spooning mashed potato on my plate. “Sorry. Caterpillar. How was your day, Caterpillar?”

  It’s the one action I took of my own accord—going against Griffin’s wishes. He didn’t punish me for it; he says he prefers it, that my new name reminds him he won, and I’m nothing. The day after I returned home, I changed my name by Deed Poll, to Caterpillar. I’m Erin no more. I will be Cooper’s Caterpillar until the day I die—until the day I spread my wings and become a butterfly.

  “Fine,” I answer, digging my spoon into the potato, another meal I refuse to eat.

  I don’t eat carbohydrates. I’ll live to Griffin’s guidelines, but I’ll follow Cooper’s rules.

  I don’t know what I did today. I remember the journey to see a doctor, another professional trained to piece me back together, but it’s impossible. There are no pieces left to fix.

  My mother says nothing, my father even less. I returned with no feelings towards them, our relationship fractured until it became non-existent. I eat with them because Griffin wants to keep up appearances. He says we’ll be married soon, and then we’re going to relocate. We’ll see my parents at Christmas, cutting them from our lives so he can have me to himself. He says it sweetly, reminds me that nothing matters but us—that I’m a good girl for protecting an innocent child. He says we’ll have children one day, that my determination to protect Doe has proven I’ll make a worthy mother to his spawn. The physical examination showed internal damage, irritation from the shower gel, and bruised from the rape I suffered at the hands of my fiancé’s teammates. I have half a mind to tear my own womb out, to stop the reproduction of a child I would hate with all I had left.

  It’s all I have, hatred. Rage. Hunger for destruction, and thirst for blood. It’s the only thing that forces me out of bed each day and allows me to survive until it ends.

  I will kill them.

  I will kill them all.

  I stare up at the ceiling, tears trickling from my eyes and down my face, to drip to the mattress beneath me, as Griffin pumps into me.

  “I can feel the cuts,” he grunts, rutting away like a blue-balled rabbit. “I can feel the swelling and bruises. I can feel you bleeding on my cock.”

  Physical pain is nothing, mental pain no longer my friend. Numbness is no longer my companion as my body screams in agony. Griffin pinches my nipples. He bites my neck. He forces his dick into me, scraping at weeping wounds and punching my swollen insides. We were told no sex. I guess it doesn’t count if it’s rape. We were told we can’t make love until I heal…what’s the point in adhering to that rule when I'm never going to heal? And this isn’t love-making; it’s hate-making. It reminds me of my goal, of the only thing I plan to do before I die.

  Cut Griffin Masters’ dick off, and choke him to death with it.

  “You’re so perfect, Caterpillar,” he breathes, making me gag as a wave of nausea rolls through me. “Such a good little girl.”

  I say nothing. He hasn’t asked me to talk, and I lack the ability. I’m concentrating on breathing through the pain and staying alive. I could slip so easily. It would be so damn easy to just let go…

  Griffin forces me to crash back to reality as his cum soaks my insides like a toxin, sticking to the welts and bruises that have turned me into nothing but a forest of blood and mess. He kisses me, forcing his tongue past my lips and into my mouth as he grunts out his orgasm.

  “So fucking perfect.”

  He rolls off me, leaving me numb and motionless beside him as he pulls the duvet over us and leaves me bleeding and broken while he slips into blessed slumber.

  Blessed, eternal slumber.

  When Griffin enters the kitchen the next morning, I’m ready. When he holds his left hand out, I place a green tea smoothie into it. When he holds out his right hand, I give him his briefcase and hook the ring of his keys onto his finger. When he turns his head to the side and offers me his cheek, I kiss it.

  “Good girl.”

  I close my eyes and embrace the reinforcement when he kisses the top of my head and turns to walk out of the door.

  “Sit in the sun today,” he says over his shoulder as he makes his way out. “Your pale skin is fucking wretched.”

  Disappointment slams into me. Of course he won’t leave me with the compliment to get me through the day. He’ll leave me pining for his acceptance and pride, with nothing but anxiety for when he returns and expects to see some colour on my wretched skin.

  I jump when the door slams behind him, gripping the counter as I lean against it.

  Day three. I keep a mental tally, so I know
exactly how many days of submission I have to punish him for. We’re already at 1,491 days since we met in September of 2012—all thanks to his cunning plan to swoop in with the balm I needed to soothe me from the crumbling of my life. I would punish him for every—single—one.

  I hear the final few words of the news, reporting murders in the city. Death is beautiful. Murder isn’t always a heinous, unjustified act. Sometimes—just sometimes—it’s more justified than letting someone live. I know. The murders I’ve planned will be more than justified in the eyes of anyone who questions my need for destruction. Sighing, I reach into the cupboard under the sink and pull out the box of supplies I need to clean. I want to sanitise the entire house, so the smell of Griffin is eradicated, granting me some peace until he returns.

  I’m crouching into the flowerbed, pulling out weeds and pruning the roses, when something sharps shoots into my head and I’m wrenched to my feet.

  “Go and pack,” Griffin seethes from behind, his angry cock digging into my back. “You’ve got seven minutes.”

  I hesitate when he shoves me away, turning to look at him in confusion. He holds his hand up, refusing me permission to talk.

  “Trust me when I tell you I’m this close to just killing you here,” he growls, burning eyes meeting mine from beneath a hooded brow. “Go and fucking pack!”

  I jump, turning and scrambling into the house to pack everything I can reach into the suitcase we shared on our first weekend away together…when I thought we were young and relishing in magical chemistry. I’m zipping the case shut when I hear Griffin call me from downstairs. I drag the case off the bed and bump it down the stairs as I race towards him. I don’t want to die.

  Before I just kill you here.

  Here? He’s going to kill me?

  No! I’m not done. I’m not ready. I haven’t grown enough as a caterpillar to embrace death with open wings.

  “Where are we going?” I ask, screeching when he grabs my hair and drags me, still holding the case, out of the open front door. “Away.”

  He doesn’t close the door behind us. We’re not coming back. I grip the butterfly pendant on my necklace as Griffin shoves me into the car and gets into the driver’s seat. We’re not in his car—we’re in something old and worn, rusting and rotting. It spits out a black cloud when he turns the engine on, and revs like the dregs of existence left in my soul as he slips it into gear and forces it from the driveway.

  “Where are we going?” I ask again, gripping the door handle.

  There are no seatbelts in this old-time death machine. One sharp break and I’ll be going through the windscreen.

  “I told you,” he snaps. “Away.”

  His driving is so much like Coopers, aggressive but with less finesse. He’s rushing. He’s tearing down the roads as if we’re being chased. Perhaps we are.

  “Are we running from the police?” I ask, knowing he’s going to kill me anyway. Why shouldn’t I push? “Or have you pissed Rob and Brad off?”

  “Who says we’re running?” He laughs. “I don’t need to discuss our plans with you.”

  Of course not. Because I’m irrelevant. Unimportant. Nothing.

  I try to relax in the seat as we scream through town and break out onto the motorway. Griffin weaves in and out of the traffic, undertaking, overtaking, and straddling the lines. He’s a mad man. He’s wild. He possesses more insanity than Cooper did with all his conflicting mental ailments.

  “Please tell me where we’re going,” I plead, my nails breaking on the plastic doorframe as I grip it as hard as I can. “Please.”

  “Shut up!”

  Grabbing the side of my head, Griffin forces it into the window. I stay awake long enough to see the glass splinter, a perfect bullseye in the centre, before blood drips over my vision and darkness veils over me to grant me mercy.

  She shot me. She fucking shot me, and she shot to kill. Has this been her plan all along? Doesn’t she know they’ll hurt her worse than I will, that they won't provide warmth to offset the chill of their cold actions?

  I thought she wanted to stay with me. Me. The real me, flaws and all.

  I allowed her to see everything, when I should have kept her locked out just so she couldn’t crawl under my skin any more than she had.

  And then she fucking. Shot. Me.

  “Mr Jennings.”

  I jump and turn to face the door when my doctor steps through. We’ve never dropped the formality, no matter how hard he tries, and today he’s playing along, in his white coat, with his clipboard and a pile of pills squashed between it and his fat belly. The anger has made me hate everyone—including the only man who could have been my friend. I snort out loud; I don’t need friends.

  “I see you’ve woken up cheery this morning.”

  “I need to go.”

  “Of course you do.” He perches on the edge of the bed, entirely unprofessional. It almost earns him a punch and a demand to keep his distance, but he pulls out a small light, grips the top of my eyelids without warning and checks my eyes. For far too long. Because he wants a reason to talk. “Aldora was found safe and well. They kept her warm, gave her a toy, and when they called Kate with her location, she called the police. Doe was examined thoroughly.”

  “And?”

  Sickness roils in my stomach, with burning lava in my blood, and flashing images fizzing in my mind. I know what these sick fucks do to women. I know they wouldn’t have touched her, in a normal situation, but what fucking part of this situation is normal? They would touch her just to ruin me. They would surpass their own sick expectations, because they knew it was how I would break. My fists clench by my sides, but Reese refuses to say anything. He’s smiling though, in punishment for all the times I’ve quipped at him for being a cunt, laughed at him for being unable to fix me, or cursed him for understanding the way I work when I don’t want him to.

  “She’s fine, Coop.” He smiles in brotherly affection when I release the breath I was holding and a tear escapes with it. “She’s absolutely fine.”

  “Physically.”

  I bow my head in shame, my thoughts returning to Caterpillar now I know my daughter is safe. Despite her strength, her mental and physical fitness, I had wormed my way in. She might have shot me for taking her, probably hoping, deep down, that Rob and Brad would let her go home. It was the one thing I hadn’t been able to manipulate. She looked for me at mealtimes, following my lead and eating exactly what I did, chewing as many times as I did, finishing when I did. She looked for me everywhere she went in my house. When she went to the bathroom, she stared at the door, hoping and fearing I’d burst through it and take her. When she was locked up in the tower, she pined for me, her soul calling me closer, despite how much she screamed that she hated me. She really did hate me. Enough to kill me. When I locked her in the tower with the vibrating egg in her greedy pussy, and the beads in her tight little ass, she’d given me everything. She told me she hated me, of course; but she also screamed that she would do anything to be let out, she would obey any rule if it meant I’d let her go. She begged me to let her free—let her fly.

  I thought she was giving in, that she was finally going to admit to being mine—to wanting to be mine as much as I wanted her to be. But I couldn’t sever the fucking emotional ties she had with whatever waited for her at home. I contemplated stealing the dog, but then Griffin got rid of it, casting it out just like he forgot about Caterpillar. I thought about stealing clothes, bringing her scent into my home to make her accept it was hers, too.

  But she always wanted to go home.

  And now she has her wish.

  “Cooper?”

  I blink once, stepping out of my stupor, to look at Reese.

  “What?” I snap.

  “Where’s Erin?”

  I growl, fisting the sheet pressed flat over my broken body—matching my broken mind—and tucked into the sides of the bed. Reese stands when I snarl, baring my teeth.

  “Why do you think I’m in here?�
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  “She did it?”

  “Yes, she fucking did it.”

  He knows this, so why is he asking? Why is he making me say it out loud? What is he hoping to achieve?

  “Because…”

  “Because I stole her. I kidnapped her, Reese.” With a sigh, I force my body to sag into the thin mattress and stare at the trees outside. “She was never mine.”

  “Or she was always yours.”

  “What the fuck are you talking about?”

  “She never fought, did she?” he asks, resuming his position on the edge of the bed and grabbing the blood pressure thing. “Not really. She asked to go home, I’m sure. I’m sure she even wanted to, but…wouldn’t you have felt it if there was no hope? Wouldn’t you have known she would never be yours?” I say nothing, forcing myself to whip back in time like a movie reel that plays past events in the run up to the climatic ending. “Wouldn’t she be dead if she was never yours?”

  “You say that like I have the control for either.”

  “Of course you do.” I still say nothing, staring up at him like I hate him. Because I do. Because he’s right and I don’t even want to kill him for challenging me. “I know it, and you know it.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” I spit. “She fucking shot me. She tried to kill me, Reese.”

  “Did she?” he tips his chin, encouraging me to think again. “Or did she shoot you to get you to safety? Did she sacrifice herself in order to send you back to your daughter? Did she love you enough to let you go, something you should have thought about before you made your choices all those years ago?”

  “They were going to hurt her,” I say, referring back to the conversations I heard over the past few years, the way Rob continued to groom Caterpillar; the way he brought her coffee in the morning, found a reason to need her when she was halfway through getting changed; the way he looked like at her like a fucking cannibal whenever his gaze landed on her. I seethed. “They would have stripped the flesh from her bones. They would have picked apart every segment of her mind until she relied on them, and only them. They would have erased her past and replaced it with stains of betrayal and deception and trickery. They would have damaged her far worse than I ever could.”