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That’s always my favorite part; those last few moments before they die. Their body has so much to say in those last few seconds, and I savor every silent word, store every painful whisper inside my heart, and watch the light leave behind nothing but a shell to rot.
Reluctantly shifting off of her, I wipe the blood from the tip of my knife onto her stained pillowcase, then carefully tuck it away as I brush off my own clothing. Doubling and triple checking for any stray droplets of blood, I take the time needed to make sure I'm clean. Satisfied, I look down at my beautiful butterfly. Reaching out, I run my hand over her cheek in a whisper of a touch that burns the very tips of my fingers. Closing my eyes to stop myself from staying any longer, I burn her image into my memory, press all of her into that bottle of memories, then slip out of her room and into the hall before quietly clicking the door shut behind me. Taking a shallow breath, I retreat back down into the main house, grabbing a stray drink off a table as I pass. Inserting myself into a nearby group, I fake a laugh as someone tells a joke I missed the beginning of, flawlessly immersing myself back into the fray like I never left.
Hours tick by as I continue to mingle, the shaking of my fingers lessening as my high slips away with the hands of the clock. The fallout gets worse every time, the high never lasting quite as long as the last. A fact I'm finding both annoying and alarming. It’s just after two AM, my arm poised back as I play beer pong, when a bone chilling shrieking leaks down the stairs and into the party. I crunch the plastic ball between my fingers as confused chaos ensues, girls screaming from the stairs that my butterfly is dead. I smile into my cup, using it to hide the expression stretching across my cheeks as I revel in my secret for the briefest of moments.
Dropping my cup in feigned panic, I let a girl next to me grab my arm, her cries burying inside my chest as she tugs us toward the exit, mascara streaking down her cheeks from her tears. Following the dispersing crowds, we stand outside the frat house. Blue and red lights blink across the lawn as police try to calm the panicking students, EMTs rushing past people to get inside the house. There's already a media van here, a pretty reporter droning on about the murder. She's looking through the crowd to find a student to talk to, get the inside scoop, so I carefully extract my arm from the tight grip it’s in and use the scattering party goers as a cover to slip off and out of sight before I get myself caught up in it.
My hands tuck into my pockets as I walk back to the car I parked down the street, the shadows of the night hiding the smile I let out now that I'm alone. My little butterfly will be all over the news in the morning, and I have my tv set to record.
My body jolts forward at the sharp smack that lands on my ass, my palms digging into the bedsheets to keep myself from sliding forward. "You like that, baby?" Another smack and my hand braces against the headboard, my lips pinching as hot breath meets my ear. "Yea, you do. You love it, don't you? You dirty little slut."
My eyes twitch as I fight from rolling them, a low breath parting my lips as I give him the answer I know he wants. "Oh yea, you're so good."
He's oblivious to the insincerity lacing my tone, or the bored expression on my face, as usual. My little lie spurs him into a frenzy of grunts and unrestrained thrusts that rock me further into his mattress. My gaze rises from the sheets to my hand still braced on the headboar
d, ears blocking out the squeaking of the springs and the soft sweet scent of another woman's perfume wafting from the fabric beneath me. My eyes find the oval mood stone nestled between various other silver pieces on my middle finger; the stone's smooth surface mixed with grey and white, little swirls of hollowness reflecting my inner thoughts in the glint of the pale moonlight shining through the crack of the curtains covering the window.
That's a feeling I don't need my ring for, though. It's as familiar as the pang of disappointment that burns along my ribs whenever I think of my Nana. As constant as the sorrow that paints my heart with ugly strokes of blue-grey misery. A gift from my Nana, the mood ring was one of her many solutions to my problems. She had a solution for everything; I never had a problem that she didn't have an answer for. Granted, her solutions rarely worked for me, but that's hardly her fault. My problems run a little deeper than most.
This particular one, though, did work. I've always struggled to understand my own feelings, struggled to understand what the butterflies in my stomach meant or what my gut aching signified. My mood ring helped me understand, helped me get over the frustration of not knowing what was happening and not knowing how to react appropriately. I don't necessarily need it now, I've learned to understand more over the years, but I want it still for both sentimental reasons and as a guide. Sometimes I still get confused; love and hate, anxiousness and fear. Some feelings are so similar at times that it helps me discern them.
Most days, I know I'm decidedly not okay without looking at it. Nana always said, “Hadley, the day is what you make it, honey, and you can make it great.” She said it like it was a simple solution, to just not have a bad day, to just not be sad. And maybe it is that simple, although I don't understand how, Nana certainly was never sad.
But Nana isn't here anymore, and all I have of her is my mood ring and memories that make it swirl grey and yellow. I don't need the mood ring my Nana gave me to understand that I am nothing but a broken doll without her. A puppet for those around me to use as they see fit and jerk around even as my strings fray from the constant abuse and my porcelain cracks. I have no one that truly cares about me. I'm just the sad, quiet girl who relies on an old pawnshop ring to tell me how I'm feeling. The girl who lets guys fuck her to feel a semblance of intimacy inside her cold, dark world of self doubt. Their rough hands and wet lips never entirely fill that void, not completely, but for a few precious moments, I can pretend.
I can pretend I'm not the girl who fucks strangers in the dark so they don't see my scars. That I'm not the girl who cries into her pillow over the pain in her chest she doesn't understand. I can pretend that I'm not the girl who has nothing and no one. I desperately want to be wanted, not just for my body, but for me. Desperately want to be needed in a way that doesn't involve sex or a means to an end. But if my past has taught me anything, it's that that's not the life I've been given. I drew the short end of the stick, destined to be the black sheep, branded with the mark of disgrace for all to see.
At some point, I know I'll stop chasing my need to feel needed, that I'll just give up and disappear like everyone I've ever cared about. But right now, I'm still sick with lust for it. My desperate heart makes me sick even as I do what I have to to feed that dark pit that lives just under my ribs. I hate that I allow myself to be used. I hate that I allow my strings to be stroked and plucked at the will of others. I hate that I like it. I hate that a dark, sick part of me clings to it because it's all I can get.
Kyler's body lands atop mine as he orgasms; hot, sticky ropes of cum dripping down the inside of my thighs as he pulls out of me to spray his release across my ass cheeks. He does it for his own satisfaction, something he's never voiced, but I'm more than aware of as his fingers swipe over the warmth of it to swipe a sticky path down the crease of my ass.
I'm not worried about getting pregnant; I had an emergency hysterectomy when I was fourteen. I was too young to care at the time to know exactly what that meant, to know that I'd never be able to have my own children, but I knew it was significant based on how all the adults would get the same look on their face whenever they found out. How they all would look down on me with what I now realize was pity. A look my parents never had on theirs, I might add. As I got older, I never felt sad about it; instead, my ring only ever glows violet with happiness when I think about it. I am not fit to be a mother, that I know without a doubt. I would never wish to bring another being into this awful world. A thought I wish my parents had had before forcing me into it. Although I often think they thought the same, but for different reasons.
I rest my cheek against Kyler's pillow as his weight presses into me, just this side of too heavy, so it's almost difficult to breathe. I don't mind, though, if anything, I almost wish I couldn't at all. "You come, baby?" I swallow, closing my eyes with the hum that I force past my lips in answer to his question. Of course, I didn't, I almost never do but telling him that would be pointless. He kisses the side of my head, and I feel my heart flutter at the contact, the need for those types of touches pulling my aching heart by its sad little strings. "Good."
He moves from me, and his warmth is immediately replaced by the cool breeze of the air conditioner sitting in the window, my skin pebbling under the direct contact. My eyes open just enough to track his dark form as he walks to the bathroom, and I stay lying on the bed until the door shuts behind him, watching the light flick on under the crack of the door. Ignoring the yellow swirling in my ring, I rise from the bed, using Kyler’s sheets to clean my legs. Reaching down, I grab my underwear off the floor and tug them on, quickly covering my skin with my discarded clothing before slipping my dirty, old converse onto my feet to build my armor back up before Kyler gets out of the bathroom.
The soft glow from the bathroom lights up his room as he comes out, now in a pair of black fitted briefs. He frowns at me as I grab my phone from his nightstand, the warm brown orbs settling on mine when I turn my face toward him. "You know you can stay."
He steps forward, his hand reaching out to touch my cheek, but I step to the side and watch it fall. I know I can stay. The needy, desperate part of me wants that; wants to let him hold me all night, but I don't want that. I don't want to need that. Kyler doesn't love me, he doesn't actually have any genuine feelings for me. He only calls me when his girlfriend is out of town and only acknowledges me when it's convenient for him. I allow myself to come here to fill that void, but I won't allow that weakness to take over. I already hate that I'm here, hate that I let him use me.
I step around him, my fingertips trailing along the wall as I put space between us. I can feel his gaze follow me in the dark as I walk across his small studio apartment, the soft sound of my feet sinking into his carpet the only noise. I look over my shoulder as I open the door, the security light from the complex hallway flooding into the space, "Tell Vickie hi for me."
He snorts at the mention of his girlfriend, shaking his head with an unamused smirk. He starts to speak, but I don't listen, shutting the door before he's even finished. It's late, maybe close to three AM, so I'm the only one on the street when I leave his apartment complex. Tucking my hands into the pocket on my hoodie, I step off of the sidewalk, choosing to walk through the dark park instead. I should stay on the lighted walkway, but I don't, stepping off into the grass and licking my lips as the warm summer night breeze blows my hood off of my head.
My feet pause in the grass momentarily, eyes falling on to a sleeping bag nestled against the outstretched branches of an overgrown bush. Not wanting to bother the poor man's sleep, I head the other direction. Seeing another person reminds me that I'm not alone, despite the stillness that fills the park at this hour. My thoughts wander to the recent news headline that I'd read just the other morning, the title inky and dark next to the blurry photo of a pretty blonde woman. Ella Rosenberg, the article had said, a junior at Rivercrest University that was majoring in economics and was a part-time ballet instructor at the local dance school. The Butterfly Killer snubbed her light out at a University party where she was murdered in her sorority bedroom, left with nothing but bloody sheets and a butterfly kiss. That's what the locals are calling the little paper butterflies that are left behind with every slain soul, anyway.
What a pretty name they've given something so ugly.
A hand wraps around my head, slapping over my mouth and stopping my forward progression as I suck in a surprised gasp. My heart pumps in my ears as his lips brush along my cheek in a familiar touch that does nothing but spur it to beat even harder against my ribs. "Got you."
Rhys's fingers dip between my lips as he pulls his hand away, pressing the tips into my teeth as they push into the soft flesh. I fight the urge to slip my tongue out and taste his fingertips, let their rough pads brush more than the inside of my lips. I may have left Kyler's house less than twenty minutes ago, but unlike him, Rhys is the forbidden fruit I crave. He terrifies me in a way I don't understand and makes me feel things that my mood ring doesn't show me. Around him, I forget everything I've grown to understand about myself and constantly find my eyes landing on my ring to tell me how I feel.
Right now, the dark pink and purple swirls glinting in the low light tells me I'm more than just happy to see him. He excites me. Makes me drunk with lust.
Rhys Elliot is everything that I'm not; everything I wish I was and also not. He's an enigma to me in the same aspect that I understand him completely. He has friends, real ones, who actually w
ant him around. He's not afraid to say what's on his mind or stand up for himself. He radiates an energy that everyone is drawn to, like moths to the soft blue haze of a bug zapper. But unlike the others, that's not what draws me. I crave to see the way his cornflower eyes burn when he gets angry. To see the shadow of his face when he lets his demons take the forefront. He holds his shadows close in his chest just like I do, fights the urge to let them loose. His ugly reminds me that I'm not the only one.
