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It hurts to breathe my heart is pounding so hard, an anxiousness making my hands shake. I feel angry despite doing exactly what I wanted. Livid even. It does nothing but confuse me and find my hands clenching in my pockets as I stomp toward my burning butterfly. I stop when the fire trucks come into view, shift my face off the side when two police cars go rushing past where I'm standing on the sidewalk. Part of me wants them to see me, wants them to ask if I saw anything, know what happened. I almost want to go tell them, a strange nagging in my chest urging to do just that even while my feet stay rooted to the spot by an unseen force telling me, they can't know. That they can never know. My mind is warring itself in a way I can't understand.
I did exactly what I wanted, everything is exactly how it should be, but instead of feeling satisfied, I'm denied once again. But this time, it's worse. I can't seem to catch my breath, my fisted hands are shaking so hard inside my pockets that my jacket zipper is jingling under my chin. Shuffling out of view the best I can on the sidewalk, I double over, grabbing my waist as I try to suck in a decent breath. My chest feels like it's caving in, a weight sitting right on my collarbone while my head spins. I don't know what's happening, and I don't know how to fix it as my lungs wheeze. A gloved hand slaps onto the fence I'm leaning against, my hunched body shuffling back toward to park, so my back is to the now raging fire. I almost think I'm having a heart attack with the way my chest is squeezing beneath my palm as I try to jog, back bent, so I'm curled in on myself.
Finally, making it to the park, I b-line for my car, my lungs slowly starting to gain their ability to suck in air. By the time I get there, I'm standing straight, my heart beating a tiny bit slower than before. I jerk my door open and fall into the driver's seat, resting my forehead on the steering wheel while I try to keep my breaths steady. My hands are still shaking, trembling in my lap while I squeeze my eyes shut. When I can finally sit up without my vision going blurry, I start my car and pull from the parking spot. I want nothing more than to go home right now. I don't know what this was supposed to prove, why I've reacted this way, but I'm scared to find out.
I don't have to work. When Nana passed, she left me a very large amount of money in her life insurance policy that ensured that I'd be set for a very long time. But sometimes it's boring doing nothing all of the time. So twice a month, I go to the Rivercrest retirement home and help with an arts and crafts class that they have. I'm sure I stick out like a sore thumb there, but I like it. It reminds me of the many times I spent with my Nana painting stained glass. Dropping my armful of supplies on the front table, I start spreading out different colored paper in various shapes and textures. Today, we're doing origami.
Trisha, a CNA who often helps with the crafts, comes into the room, wheeling one of my favorite residents into the room with her. She smiles at me, pushing him to another table. He scowls at me. "How are you doing today, Larry?"
"I'd be better if they'd let me have another fruit cup with lunch." His shaky wrinkled hands cross over his chest.
"You know we need to watch your blood sugar, Larry." Trisha gives me side-eye, smirking at me as she comes to stand by the table. "Now, what color do you want? We're going to be making origami today."
"Ori-what? Just give me blue."
She chuckles, putting a square of blue paper in front of him. The other residents are starting to file into the room, a few others being wheeled by CNA's like Larry was. It doesn
't take long for everyone to settle, and Trisha takes over since she knows I don't like to.
"We're making origami hearts today! Hadley brought a bunch of different kinds of paper for us to use and you guys can come pick what you'd like."
After everyone has picked their paper and I've done a demonstration on how to fold the paper to make a heart, I walk around the room, making sure no one needs help. Most of the ladies here are crafty themselves and already know how to do most of what we do in these classes, but others, like Larry, struggle a bit. I move to stand near his table, watching as stares at the triangle he's made.
"That doesn't look like a heart, Larry."
He frowns at me, showing me the paper in his hand. "No. It looks like shit."
I laugh, taking it from his palm. Unfolding it, I smooth it out, starting to refold it in the correct way for him. I hold it where he can see, so he can watch the steps. When it's a cute little heart, I set it back into his palm. "Here."
His fingers close around the little heart, "My granddaughter used to paint." He shifts in his wheelchair, and I wait for him to continue, "She did watercolor."
"I bet it was really pretty."
"It was shit." I laugh again, and he smiles, putting the paper heart in the pocket of his flannel shirt. "But she loved doing it, and that's all that mattered."
"You said she used to. Does she not paint anymore?" He shakes his head, the look on his face stopping my heart in my chest and immediately making we wish I could take the words back and pretend I never asked.
"No. We lost Tracy this summer."
I swallow hard. "Tracy? Tracy Mucket?"
"Yes. She took her stepfather's name. Did you know her?"
I suddenly feel sick to my stomach, vomit burning up my esophagus that I have to fight down. "I'm so sorry, Larry. Excuse me, I have to use the restroom." Spinning from the table, I walk as fast as I can from the room without drawing attention to myself. My lungs are on fire as I try to keep my breathing under control. Palm on the doorframe to steady myself, I push into the bathroom and close the door behind me.
I don't understand what's happening, I don't know why the mention of Tracy, someone I don't think I've ever even met, is triggering such a response. Falling forward, I grip onto the sides of the sink, head bowed as I try to get my breathing under control. My chest is tight, making each breath hard to pull in, my heart beating so hard I can feel it vibrating my ribs.
"....ing News. Tracy Mucket, a senior at Rivercrest University, was found murdered in her own home. Detectives say she appears to be another victim of the Butterfly serial killer. RLQ News anchor, Robert Yunder, is currently on the scene..."
Turning the cold water on, I splash my face. It doesn't help, I feel like I'm on fire, my skin burning in hot flashes. My vision is blurring out of focus, black dots dancing when I blink.
Focus!
Focus Hadley!
Hadley!
“Am I weird, Nana?”
