The Butterfly Box_A SASS Anthology

by Anthology

  I try to picture him - his kind face, his blond hair, his light brown eyes.

  What state is he in?

  What is he missing?

  I pray it’s not his face. He has such a beautiful face. I pray his face is still intact.

  I shoot to my feet, not wanting to imagine any more. I need to know. I scream to my maid and she comes running at my shriek.

  “A car – not a carriage - I need one now. To the hospital.” I hold out the telegram and she takes it tentatively. “Go!” I order. I don’t like giving orders, I’d been a maid not long ago too, but I need to get across my urgency. I need to be there.

  I get dressed hurriedly, my fingers shaking too much to attempt a corset. Pinning a hat on top of my poorly constructed hair style, I race down the stairs. I pace the hall as I wait for the car. It's an excruciating wait. I want to run to him, feel my muscles work beneath my skin as they bring me back to his side. My mind tells me though that waiting for the car, however painful, is by far the quickest way to him. A car can move faster than I could ever run. My teeth worry at my nails, a habit I've tried so hard to stop since I moved up into this life. I know I should stop now, Percy will mention it, he always mentions it. Yet my teeth keep going. I force my hand down, clasping it in my other behind my back.

  “How long is this going to take? I need to leave!” I demand. I make a mental note of my tone, to apologise later, but I can't worry about that now.

  “I'm sure it's nearly here.” The maid smiles slightly, and I know she understands my stress.

  The car arrives and I burst out the house, not caring what I look like. I throw myself into the car so quickly I notice the driver looking at me in concern.

  “Where-”

  I thrust the telegram into his hand. “Take me there, as quickly as you can.” I can barely get my words out, but he nods, understanding me. Without another word he turns around, puts the car in gear and speeds off down the road, the tires screaming slightly in our haste.

  THEY’RE COMING FOR me. All of them. I see their eyes darting towards me, see them whispering to each other as they walk past my bed. German spies, assassins, I don’t know. All I know is they’re here for me.

  I can still feel the weight of my fallen company on top of me. It’s as if I’m still there. I can still smell the blood, the mud. I can hear the ringing in my ears so loud it deafens me, making other noises appear far away. The doctor says it’s all in my head. That’s what he wants me to believe.

  I know they’ve done something to me. I can sense it.

  How dare they call me mad?

  I notice the large lock on my door for the thousandth time, the newly fitted item gleams in the otherwise old room, holding my attention. I also notice the lack of anything sharp or heavy. The chest of drawers and wardrobe have been nailed down, there’s only a lone chair in the far corner, too light to cause any damage. I want to rob them of the pleasure of killing me themselves, but they won’t even allow me that one dignity.

  I can’t go back.

  Not now I know how corrupt this war really is.

  I fell asleep in a dressing station weeks ago. The word neurosis was whispered around and a sedative forced into my veins. That was the last time I can recall being asleep. Properly anyway. I’ve drifted out of consciousness for a few minutes when my body can no longer stay awake, but I’ve not been asleep since the sedative. Part of me wants them to do it again, I’m so tired. The rest of me is terrified of what they’ll do.

  I can’t sleep. I know I can’t.

  They knew I was on to them. They knew I was a danger to their operation, so they took me out of it, framed me as a madman. Just like they’d done to that poet.

  I woke up later in this makeshift hospital. The white sheets, the smell of death covered over with disinfectant, makes me desperate to get out. I’ve run for the door more times than I can count. That’s why I’m in this locked room now. They can’t have me in a ward anymore they say.

  They’ve forgotten I have connections in England. They say I’m in England now, but I’m not sure I believe it. To believe it would be to believe England has fallen to their corrupt power. I can’t believe that.

  I still have Ida. She’ll believe me. She’ll help me.

  Why hasn’t Ida come yet?

  I think perhaps they haven’t told her I’m here. That’d be just like them. Isolate me, keep me from the one person I can trust. I squeeze my eyes shut to picture her face again but I can’t. My fingers grasp hold of the sheets so tightly it hurts. I’m so desperate to see her. My hands feel empty without her. My mind’s racing, trying so hard to picture any part of her I can. After a few minutes of trying, my eyes squeezed shut, my fingers wrapped around the sheets, I can picture her body. I can see the pale curve of her waist where it meets her hip, the slope of her bare breast, the place between her thighs only I’m allowed to see. I like that I can see this, that my mind is allowing me this one pleasure. I can picture it all so vividly but I still can’t see her face. I see her dark hair as it hangs down her back, the way it looks when free of her hat. Dark hair and grey eyes, I know the facts, yet her face still hangs out of reach.

  I imagine her body anyway, if it’s the only pleasure I’m allowed I will picture it every second they let me live. They can take everything else, but they can’t take my thoughts.

  I fight to get my hand beneath the sheets, desperate to imagine her here with me. Desperate to feel her. The ancient bed squeaks as I move with such a frenzied urgency it hurts, making my skin raw. I groan louder than I normally allow myself to, staining the sheets as I finish. I don’t bother cleaning it, hiding the marks as I used to do at my parent’s house or in my marital home when Ida was away. I keep the stains there. Perhaps I am crazy but I don’t care.

  I imagine Ida lying beside me, her breath slowing, regulating as she drifts to sleep. I imagine her from toes to chest but I still can’t see her face. I almost drift off to sleep myself. Just the thought of her here has relaxed me. I must speak to the doctor again, plead to see Ida, even if it’s only for a few minutes. I just want to see her face.

  As the darkness creeps in around my thoughts the voices start up again. They’re plotting, scheming in a way my thoughts never would have before. It’s too loud. Why are people screaming? This is a hospital, we’re safe here apparently, so why scream? Perhaps they’re running experiments. I tremble in fear. The sweat of my earlier excitement is now cold against my skin.

  At least there are no rats. I pick absentmindedly at a scab on my arm, left over from the lice that used to inhabit my uniform. I stop when I feel my fingertips wet with blood. I’ve gone too far.

  I look up at the ceiling. There’s blood there for some reason. I think it used to be white, but now blood trickles down the walls, onto my sheets. My breathing gets quicker. I must be imagining it. Blood can’t be dripping off the ceiling. I close my eyes. Make it go away, please make it go away.

  They turn off the lights with a click. I’m plunged back into darkness, back into hell.

  WHEN I ARRIVE at the hospital I barely even wait for the car to stop before I’m out the door, running flat out into the building. It’s not a real hospital, just another grand house that’s been given to the war effort, but there’s enough medical equipment for the term hospital to be appropriate. I push past a group of nurses outside, lighting cigarettes for each other as they giggle about something or other. I don’t stay to see what. One of them tuts at me as I run up the wide stone steps, but I don’t care. When I get inside I go straight to a large desk on the right, behind which is a young girl about my age.

  “D-Denton. I’m here for Lieutenant Percival Denton. I have this telegram. He’s here. Let me see him, please.” I manage to force out the words, trying as hard as possible not to jumble them up in my haste. “Percival Denton,” I repeat as she starts flicking through the records in front of her.

  “I’ll go get Doctor Jeffreys. He’s dealing with Lieutenant Denton. What relation are you?”
>
  “I’m his wife. Please just – please hurry.”

  The girl smiles in a sympathetic way, but I can tell I’m only one of many. Plenty of people have already run in here, desperately seeking a loved one.

  “Mrs Denton?” someone calls after a few minutes of anxious pacing. I look up, searching for the owner of the voice. “He’s right this way,” he says, gesturing with his arm down the corridor to the right of the building. I clench my hands together, scurrying after him as fast as I can go.

  “Thank you, Doctor,” I manage to mumble as I reach him, following the direction in which he had pointed. He keeps in step beside me easily.

  We walk in silence down the corridor for a while before the doctor slows his step. “I should probably explain,” he says, in a determined voice. “Percival has had something of a breakdown.”

  I stop walking, unable to get my head around his statement. A breakdown? I had been playing scenarios over and over in my imagination. Lost legs, missing face, broken bones, but I'd never considered his illness could be of the mind.

  “What do you mean?” I ask in a whisper. The doctor has a compassionate expression. His eyes are tired, his grey streaked hair falling free of what was probably once a neat hairstyle, and is now in his eyes. He flicks his head every few seconds.

  “He won't be the same person you remember, Mrs Denton. He is...delusional. He believes a lot of things that aren't real. He knows who you are though. He asks for you always, it's one of the only things he'll say.” The doctor takes a breath. “We didn't want you to see him straight away because his behaviour is erratic...he's dangerous.”

  I move my hand to my mouth.

  “T-take me to him, where is he?”

  The doctor gives another sympathetic smile, as if Percy is already dead.

  “He's right in here.”

  We walk another short distance, passing several identical doors along the way before we stop. The doctor stands in front of the doorway, his hand resting on the brass handle.

  “Are you sure-” he begins, as he slides a key in the lock. I nod before he can even finish. Pushing the door open he walks inside. I'm suddenly nervous.

  “Percival,” the doctor greets. He hates being called Percival. A string of swear words and vicious threats erupt in Percy's familiar voice. I walk forwards, almost colliding with the doctor who is still stood in my way. Our eyes meet instantly, mine and Percy's. He’s in a narrow bed against the far right wall, huddled in the foetal position, the covers pulled up to his neck.

  “Ida,” he whispers. My knees go weak and I struggle to stay upright as I stumble towards him.

  “I doubt he’ll talk,” the doctor advises in a whisper as I pass him.

  I look at Percy again. At the same time, he lifts his head off the pillow and stretches his frail arms out in my direction.

  “Ida,” he exclaims, his voice hoarse, his eyes old.

  Despite the fear in his brown eyes, the wild appearance of his blond hair, his presence makes me feel complete again. I smile as I take him in, relieved he is still alive. Whatever has happened, I’ll help him.

  I take a breath and fill the gap between us quickly, throwing myself into his embrace. With a sob, I breathe in the familiar scent of his skin. His arms tighten around me, holding me to him so tightly it’s almost painful. I hold him back with the same force.

  “Help me, Ida,” he whispers into my shoulder. Only now do I hear the frantic tone in his once highly educated, velvety voice. I pull away from him slightly so I can look into his eyes, and take his face in my hands. He looks terrified. His gaze flicks over my features, unable to stay still.

  “They’re after me, Ida – help me, please.”

  His voice breaks on the last word and his shoulders shake. He isn’t just afraid, he’s petrified.

  “Who’s after you?” I ask, taking on an almost motherly tone as I stroke my thumbs over his cheeks. I try to stay strong despite the sadness and anger that rip at my stomach.

  Seeing him like this brings bile into my throat. How can a country put down a man for not enlisting when this is what it does to them? Huddled in my arms, Percy is no more than a child.

  It makes me sick to my stomach.

  “Them,” he answers with a snarl in his voice, pointing towards the doctor with a deliberate harshness. “Him!”

  His breathing grows heavier and more hysterical as his lips curl up in distaste. My heart pounds in my chest, hammering against my ribs desperate to break free but I don’t let it show.

  “They’re here to help,” I reply as calmly as I can, still rubbing my thumbs in small circles over his gaunt cheeks. There’s stubble shadowing his chin but I don’t care. Just to feel him here, so solid, so warm, makes my heart flutter. I wish he would look back at me with that same love. Instead, he looks at me with a desperate need, not a passionate need like he used to, this is a fearful need.

  I pull his head into my chest and press my face into his hair. I try to stifle the feelings bubbling inside me harder than ever.

  “It’s alright,” I kiss the top of his head as I feel my tears start to flow. I look up at the white ceiling, the bare bulb swinging above us, devoid of anything he could hurt himself on. Percy shakes like a leaf, trembling in my arms. I rock from side to side, my fingers playing with his hair as they always used to. I let my tears continue to soak into him. “It’s alright, you’re safe now. I’m here.”

  SEEING IDA HERE, feeling her in my arms, is the best medicine any hospital can offer. I hold onto her, feeling her calloused fingers in my hair, fingers used to hard work. It’s all so familiar I can’t keep the tears from stinging my eyes. I sob, the sound ripping through my throat as Ida holds me even tighter. I feel her lips press against the top of my head and cry shamelessly, ruining the front of her dress. I’m so overwhelmed I can barely form a thought. I can’t believe they’ve let me see her. I pull back, wiping my nose on my sleeve and look at her face. I take in her delicate features, the freckles dotting her nose, the small scar across her eyebrow from a falling pot in my parent’s kitchen years ago. I try to smile, but I can’t master the expression. I reach out my hand, running my finger down her cheek, checking she’s real.

  Ida’s here. Ida’s really here. She smiles and everything makes sense. I will do anything for her.

  “I love you,” she whispers. “I was so scared when I got the telegram. I didn’t know what had happened to you. I thought perhaps – I don’t know – when they said you’d had a – that’s not important. Does it sound horrible if I say I was really relieved? I was worried your face would be damaged. You’ve got such a beautiful face. That sounds awful, doesn’t it? You’ve been through so much and here I am worrying about vanity.”

  She laughs a little and looks away from me briefly. Looking back at me she smiles again, her grey eyes lighting up as she rests her forehead against mine. “I think I’ve done enough talking.”

  Slowly, infuriatingly slowly, she kisses me. A small moan comes from the back of my throat. Her lips are so warm, so familiar. I lean towards her subconsciously, desperate to keep her lips against mine. My mind races over all the other things we could be doing, if only the doctor wasn’t staring at us from the doorway. I pull away, unable to concentrate in this room.

  “Help me,” I mutter again, trying to convey my urgency through my voice and eyes. Her brow creases ever so slightly and I want to run my finger down the crease, as I have done countless times before. I almost start to cry again remembering our life together before this war. I remember our carefree childhood, the excitement of our teenage sneaking around, the feel of the straw beneath us in the stables behind my parent’s house. I remember the fear, the worry we would not be allowed to marry, the recklessness of finally eloping and the thrill of being married. How had that happy ending turned on its head so quickly?

  I hope Ida isn’t disappointed. She looks uncertain, tentative. I hope this new, less naive version of myself isn’t going to make her leave. I couldn’t survive if s
he left me.

  “Of course I’ll help you, Percy.”

  I have to squeeze my eyes closed. Hearing her say my name is the most beautiful sound in the world.

  “Tell me how I can help you,” she continues. I glance back at the doctor. He’s edging slowly forwards, hoping I won’t notice.

  “Not here,” I hiss. “Not when he’s listening.”

  She looks over her shoulder at the doctor.

  “It’s just the doctor, Percy, it’s his job to help you.”

  I drop my hands from her, looking aghast into her pale eyes.

  “No…they can’t have gotten to you already.”

  “G-gotten to me? What do you mean? I don’t understand. Talk to me, help me to understand.”

  I look around the room, its bare walls and clinical furniture are a mockery of the stately home it used to be. The narrow bed with its rumpled white sheets, the once glossy wooden floor, the locked window - it would have been nice, once upon a time. Now though, I feel as if the room itself is laughing at me. I put my hands up to my ears. The ringing had stopped when Ida walked in, I hadn’t noticed until now as it picks up again. The voices in my head are trying to turn me against Ida. They’re trying to make me hate her. I can’t do it. I can believe everything else, but I can’t turn against my Ida. I scramble away from her, pressing myself against the wall, my hands still against my ears. I want the noise to stop. I can’t bear all the noise. I don’t want to hurt her. I’d sooner kill myself than hurt her. The bed dips as Ida climbs up beside me. I try to get away from her again but she advances anyway. Hesitating for only a second she lays her hands against mine, prising them from my ears. I open my eyes to see her face once more inches from mine.

  “I don’t know what you’ve seen but I’m going to help you through it, Percy. I love you, you’re my entire life and I’ve only just got you back. Do you think I’d just up and leave? No chance, you’re stuck with me.”

  She lets out a tiny laugh, and I can’t help but smile back. I’m conditioned to smile when she does.