Butterfly

by Rebecca Sherwin

  I didn’t expect him to shove Caterpillar into the unforgiving, selfish arms of the ocean.

  He tries to grab me as I storm towards him, but I duck, elbowing him in the stomach and ploughing straight through him. The whistle escapes my lung, surging up out of my mouth like a dolphin’s call to its mate, as I throw myself off the edge, and plunge into the depths of the sea to find my Caterpillar.

  I can’t see her, the blackness of night hiding her from me, and the ocean unwilling to share its angel. I claw through the water, parting it with cupped hands and raw determination. The netting I saw her bound to the chair with before she disappeared tickles my fingers and I grab it, pulling it between my hands, dragging me deeper as I pull her up. When I collide with her cold, silky skin, I blow out the last hint of air in my lungs.

  I tear at the bindings, but it’s no good.

  I can’t get through the tangle.

  I can’t see how to break her free.

  My lungs begin to buck and I feel them closing on themselves as my mouth opens and I force myself not to breath in a lungful of water.

  A small stream of bubbles escapes Caterpillar’s mouth; I feel them tickle over my skin, and it means I can find her. I follow the trail, slinking my arm around her waist.

  We’re running out of time.

  An explosion, muted, muffled and wet sounds out from above, like fireworks celebrating something monumental.

  It’s not monumental. It’s tragic. It’s devastating.

  It’s not fair.

  I stay with her, kicking my legs and trying to untangle the net from around my feet that’s stopping me from swimming to the surface. I look up, watching the moon slip gradually further away from us as we’re sucked lower and lower into the unknown depths of the ocean.

  Caterpillar is gone, her arms hanging limply over mine, her head resting against mine as dead lips graze my cheek. I turn my head, parting her lips with my tongue and drawing in the water from her mouth.

  I embrace death.

  I willingly let go.

  I spread my wings as Caterpillar spreads hers.

  Together, we become a butterfly.

  This is where Butterfly ends.

  And yet…I couldn’t leave it there.

  Here is an additional ending. An ending that will give you an appetite for more.

  Even though Cooper and Caterpillar’s story has been told,

  it is far from over…

  “Doe, you’re up!”

  I flex my toes against the cool tile, cracking my knuckles as I roll my neck and stretch my arms out in front of me. I’m ready.

  I was born to do this.

  I’ve been swimming since before I could walk.

  I spend every day in the water, pushing through its resistance, gliding with its rhythm, floating with its buoyancy. Like most kids, I began with a doggy paddle. Front crawl became my strength. And the butterfly soon became my specialty.

  I nod and take my first step towards the pool. I step up onto the starting block, taking deep breaths as I acquaint myself with the feel of it beneath me, sliding my left leg—my strongest leg—backwards, just a little. The toes of my right foot curl over the edge, keeping me balanced and steady. I ignore the crowds, and the swimmers either side of me, as I crouch down and tuck my head close to my knees, gripping the front of the block with the tips of my fingers. I take deep breaths, concentrating on the invigorating breath in, the calm breath out, and the relaxation that finds me when I inhale the scent of chlorine. The buzzer sounds and I dive, the clear water welcoming me home as I slink into its depths and propel myself forward. A smile dances across my lips as I watch the spotlights above the pool move closer, cheering for me in bright come-hither. When I break through the surface, I take a breath, my feet kicking like I’m a mermaid designed to do just this, my arms circling over my head like I’ve got wings and I’m performing a ballet in the air. I don’t stop; the rush kicks in, the adrenaline whispers through my veins before it roars to life; the pressure makes me come alive and I propel myself through the water, preparing to take what’s mine.

  Gold.

  Each stroke fills me with pride, each kick reminding me to go faster, to push harder, to aim higher.

  The final length brings relief, and panic—panic I thrive on.

  This is where I’m calm. This, in the bubble of bliss with the anxiety of possible failure, is where I feel most like myself.

  Out there, outside of the watery cocoon my mind is protected in, I’m at risk.

  I don’t think like others.

  I don’t live like others.

  I think like my father.

  I live like my father.

  I take action without thinking of the consequences. I struggle to make eye contact, can’t talk to people without fear of attaching to them and wanting to own them, and I can’t be around people with their optimistic bullshit when I see the truth of the world.

  My mother tells me all the time I’m so much like the man she fell in love with. She told me from a young age not to be like he was, not to live like he did, never to fall like he fell.

  My stroke falters when I picture his face, young and carefree like I’ve seen in all the photos, when I know he was anything but inside. I live in his mind. I know how it works, what makes it tick, why he found it so hard to love my mother without killing her. I understand him—something that enrages my mother because I won't turn against him. Blowing out an unnecessarily harsh breath, I force my mind to shut off, my body to obey, and my soul to conquer this torment. I won't lose. I can’t.

  The tip of my middle finger touches the wall first, before I greedily grab at it with both hands. When I raise my head from the water, sucking in a deep breath as I lift my goggles from my eyes and free myself from the black-tinted vision my father lived in all his life.

  Time moves slowly as I look around me, the next few seconds of my life playing out like a slow action-replay.

  Then…I freeze.

  The crowd erupts into a cacophony of erratic applause, ear-splitting cheers and deafening cries of excitement.

  I’ve won.

  My entire body prickles, goosebumps surging to the surface of my skin to make the water vibrate around me as it envelopes me and encourages me to celebrate. I’m acutely aware of every breath I take, each one pushing and pulling me in different directions. I should be happy…so why do I feel like this isn’t real? Like I’m about to be punished for succeeding? That I’m going to suffer for my determination and pay for my passion?

  Because I’m my father’s daughter.

  It’s just the paranoia. It’s just the anxiety.

  Kelsey, my coach, calls my name from behind the barriers, and I hear her above all others. When I find her, she’s smiling, encouraging me to embrace the reality of what I’ve done.

  I’m an Olympic champion.

  But I’m crazy. How can I combine the two and stop myself from combusting?

  Newspapers and magazines, every report in the run-up to the Olympic games reported me as being aloof, closed off and enigmatic. Because I don’t celebrate. I don’t cheer. I watch my teammates and congratulate them from the side-lines…but I don’t celebrate my own achievements. It could all be torn away from me so easily that I can’t bear to believe I’m happy. Really, truly, happy.

  I decide to allow them to reinforce their perception of me, and climb out of the pool, looking up at the section in the audience cordoned off for my family, to see it empty. When I reach Kelsey, she pulls me into her arms, ignoring the way I stiffen when she touches me without warning. She’s used to it…it makes me feel sick.

  “Doe.”

  Grateful to be free from my coach before she can tear up and congratulate me, make me feel awkward when she tells me she’s proud of me, or force me to turn and face the people cheering for me as my name lights up on the scoreboard, I step away from her.

  My mother doesn’t touch me; she knows what will happen if she does, and she decides to spare me an anxiety a
ttack, or freaking out in public.

  “I’m so proud of you, sweetheart.”

  I smile weakly and thank her, but look past her. I love my mother, but she doesn’t understand. She began to mother me not long before I turned four, and I refuse to punish her for the years prior to that…but it doesn’t mean I won't do everything I can to stop the emotion she stirs in me.

  “Caterpillar.”

  I push past my mother, and launch myself into the arms of my stepmother. She holds on tight, wrapping her arms around me and inhaling the scent of my hair. She doesn’t care that I’m soaking her clothes. She doesn’t care that I stink of chlorine. She doesn’t care that I’m trapped in the nosedive, the plummet of adrenaline I always experience after stepping out of the pool. She just holds me, with one hand on the back of my head and the other arm wrapped so tightly around me we almost become one. She’s my best friend. Where the kids in school all hate their mothers, and detest their stepmothers because they’re selfish, hormonal arseholes, I love Caterpillar. She makes up for everything my mother isn’t, and she’s all the things I need to feel calm—just like my father.

  Two strong, warm arms wrap around the both of us, and we look up into the steel-grey eyes of my daddy.

  The man I live to love.

  The man who gave me everything.

  The man who understands me like no other ever will. He tells me I’ll find my caterpillar, like he found his, but I don’t believe him. I don’t believe that there are two people like us in the world who get the happy ever after. Daddy says it’s the disorders talking, that the illnesses I inherited from him convince me my life will be black forever, but I haven’t been able to prove him right yet.

  “I’m so proud of you,” he says, his voice deep and tight with emotion as he looks up at my mother. “She did it, Kate.”

  Caterpillar has taught him to feel bad for his actions—to have empathy and remorse, where I have none. It’s that change in him, that alteration in our matching personality disorders, that mean he beckons for my mother to join us, accepting her into the group hug and giving her something I can’t…acceptance.

  “I’m going to get changed,” I say, slinking out from the awkward embrace of husband, ex-wife, and new wife. “I’ll come find you after the ceremony.”

  I step back, conscious of the way Caterpillar and Daddy watch me as I edge away from them and towards the changing rooms.

  I think I love them because they’ve lived through the fear that holds me captive every day. I knew something was different about them; I knew there was something about the way they live that is so unlike anything you see on TV, or hear about from conversations during class.

  They reluctantly told me the story when I was sixteen. They nearly died, in some sort of Romeo and Juliet tragedy that almost saw them wiped out without proof they ever existed. I don’t know the details—just that Caterpillar thought Daddy was dead, then Daddy tried to save her, but he was too late.

  They shouldn’t be here.

  They should be at the bottom of the ocean.

  But something…be it divine intervention, fate, or the hero I know as Uncle Mike, saved them. Caterpillar can’t have children. Daddy can’t hold his breath for more than fifteen seconds. Caterpillar is quiet and reflective, often staring off into the distance and I know, when she goes there, she’s imagining a different outcome. Daddy is protective and aggressive—with all of us—and I understand that. He lost control. He almost failed, and failure is not an option for people like us. He almost died and left us unprotected. He’s determined—something drives him to be different, and I think it’s Caterpillar. Caterpillar and me, and my mother…he has three women who love him and depend on him, and for that reason he has a mission. I don’t know what it is. I don’t know what it involves. But I know he’ll succeed.

  “Excuse me?” A low male voice calls out as I turn into a cubicle.

  When I look over my shoulder, I see a short man approaching me. His white hair is clipped short, his large body which must have once been strong and defined, is dressed in a charcoal grey suit with a powder blue tie that reminds me of the pool. His eyes are kind, chocolate brown and inviting. His smile is friendly and genuine.

  “Hi.”

  I take his hand when he extends it, and his fingers stroke the back of my hand gently when he slowly shakes it.

  “I just wanted to congratulate you on your win.”

  “Thank you,” I say with an awkward smile and tug out of his hold.

  “I knew you had good things coming your way, Aldora Jennings.” He smiles again, glancing out at the pool before his gaze returns to me. “Bradley Fox. I’m an old friend of your father’s. I just wanted to stop by and say hello...”

  Acknowledgements

  Thank you to everyone who made this possible.

  Thank you so much to my readers, and+ everyone who gives little ol’ me and my fucked up mind a chance…thank you so much. Hang around, we’ve got plenty more to come. Now we’re into the rabbit hole, we’ll keep digging deeper.

  To my team, for having my back and encouraging me to keep going. You also get a thank you for keeping me reined in!

  As always, thank you, Tiger. Thank you for dealing with my crazy, and holding my hand on the dark road we both love. I couldn’t do this without you.

  Thank you Tracie Podger for being my sounding board, critic, and closest friend.

  Thank you to my PA, Alison Parkins, for being my eyes and standing in my corner when I say deviance is the way to go. I’m so glad neither of us have morals ;-)

  A huge thank you to Karen Atkinson Lingham, LJ Knox, and Jodie Scott, my newly formed Sherwin Book Bitches. I’m sorry I put you ladies under pressure and gave you a strict timeline, but thank you so much for coming through. Butterfly wouldn’t have been ready on time if not for you.

  Thank you to everyone in the Twisted Book Club.

  The group is a top-secret Facebook group, but if you like to live on the dark side of life, on the edge of insanity and deviance, find us. Find Di Covey, Jamie Buchanan and their team at https://www.facebook.com/theoneandonlytwistedsisters

  About the Author

  Rebecca is a London born and bred mother, writer and psychology student. She is the mother of a superhero (who is currently growing his hair like Thor! Edit: he has cut it like Captain America…good ol’ Cap) and spends her days with her nose tuck in a textbook, her fingers tapping away at the keys…or she’s building forts and eating gummy bears.

  A lover of all things dark and deviant, Rebecca’s stories are intended to make you uncomfortable while you desperately turn the pages. They will make you question everything you thought you knew. If you think you’ve figured it out…you haven’t. If you think you know where it’s going…you don’t.

  Between the covers of Rebecca’s tales, you will find strength in love, and peace in darkness. You will find happiness in deviance, and depravity in the happy ever after we all crave.

  You’ll be begging for rainbows and butterflies, whilst clawing at black hearts and withering flowers.

  Contact Rebecca

  Facebook: https://www/facebook.com/rebeccasherwinauthor

  Twitter: https://www.twitter.com/RRSherwin

  Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/rebecca.sherwin

  Email: missrsherwin@gmail.com

  Rebecca’s Facebook Group: https://www/facebook.com/groups/RebeccasRomantics

  Other Books by Rebecca

  Hearts and Flowers

  Second Chance Hero (A contemporary seaside romance)

  Dark hearts and withered flowers

  Survival (Twisted #1)

  Revival (Twisted #2)

  Thrive (Twisted #3)

  Allegiance (Twisted #4)

  Butterfly

  Pitch black darkness and flowerless deviance

  Marked (A Twisted Story)

  GRIT

  GRIT Sector 1: Elias

  Coming Soon

  Raising Phoenix

  GRIT Sector 1
: The Revolution

  Birdie

  GRIT Sector 2: Trace

  Ronnie, A Masked Psychopath

  To keep up to date with news on Rebecca’s releases, sign up for the Romantics newsletter:

  http://eepurl.com/bnLXmr