Butterfly

“The butterfly is Nature's way
of reminding us that there is hope in grief.

When the caterpillar is no more
the butterfly exists in ultimate freedom and beauty.”

-- TANYA LORD

1

Grace

The first smack across my cheek
takes my breath away.

The force swings my head
around.

A cracking sound in my neck
reverberates through my ears.

Black and white stars explode
behind my eyes.

I taste something metallic in my
mouth. Blood.

No one’s ever hit me before, and
I’m shocked. More than shocked. Scared to death.

Every single fibre and molecule
in my body freezes. Paralyzed. Mute.

Except for my brain.

In the few seconds it takes him
to grab me and hurl me onto his bed, I have two thoughts. One, I’m
so scared I don’t know if I can survive what is about to happen.
And two, I want to stay alive.

And then the freezing
reverses.

My brain shuts down, and my
thoughts evaporate into numbness, but my body can feel again. His
heavy weight presses on top of me, forcing me into his mattress
where the springs dig into my back. One of his big hands grips both
of mine above my head so I can’t struggle. His other hand tears at
my knickers. He’s forcing himself inside me.

He’s so strong the weight of him
crushes my chest.

I can’t breathe.

Don’t want to breathe. Just want
to be dead.

When I do suck in a ragged gasp
of breath, I smell the alcohol on him.

Terror has frozen my vocal
chords. I can’t scream.

White noise fills my head.

I turn my face to the side, away
from his, because it’s the only part of my body I have control
over.

Hot, wet tears slide down my
cheeks and the back of my throat.

Nothing will ever be the same
again.

I wake up with the scream lodged
in my throat. My heart bangs against my ribs so hard my chest
threatens to explode. I shiver with the cold sweat covering me. My
stomach lurches.

I rush to the bathroom and vomit
into the toilet just in time. There’s not much to bring up, since I
hardly eat anymore, and the stomach acid and bile burns my throat.
My eyes water from the effort, or maybe it’s just the tears again.
As the last heaves wrack my body, I’m completely aware it was a
nightmare. I have the same one every night.

Except it wasn’t a nightmare.
Not really. It’s my reality now. I’m stuck in a living nightmare,
where I’m afraid to go to sleep and afraid to stay awake. Either
way it haunts me, like the vision is stuck just behind my eyes.
Whether they’re open or closed, it’s seared into my brain and will
never go away. I know I need help. It’s been a year, and trying to
forget isn’t working anymore.

I clean my teeth and rinse my
mouth, carefully avoiding my gaze in the mirror because I can’t
stomach what I’ll see. I know what will reflect back at me: a woman
who’s pathetic, weak, ugly, desperate, hopeless.

I wish I wasn’t her.

I lie down on the cold, hard
tiles of the bathroom floor, my arm supporting my head as I stare
into desolate space.

I can’t do this anymore.

I don’t want to be this person.
Don’t even recognize who I am anymore.

I’m too scared to live and too
scared to end it all.

I barely exist.

I’m exhausted.

It hurts to breathe. To
live.

I wake up early the next morning
as the light filters through the bathroom blind. My body is cold
and painful from sleeping on the floor. Maybe it’s my punishment.
Maybe I deserve it. I stand on wobbly legs and walk down the
hallway to the bedroom. The sour smell of my sweat on the sheets
reaches my nose, and I’m disgusted with myself. If it’s not
possible to forget, then I have to try something else. I want this
to be over and done with. I want to live again.

Anger and despair rise inside
me. I try to keep it locked inside, but it lives close to the
surface now, threatening to unleash itself at any moment. I scream,
pulling the sheets and duvet off my bed into a heap on the floor. I
kick my shoes across the room so hard they hit the wall and bounce
back. I swing my arm over the contents of my bedside table, sending
an empty wine glass and alarm clock hurtling to the floor. The
glass shatters on the pine floorboards, but I don’t care. I don’t
care about most things anymore.

I crumple to the floor, my body
crouched in on itself. My arms clutch around my knees, and I rest
my head on them, trying to keep my breathing steady.

I know what I have to do, but
I’m so scared. I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t want everyone
to know my shameful secret. I don’t want to see the disgust in
their eyes. Or the blame. But maybe it’s my only hope, because I
want to be normal again. I can’t face the thought that
this
is all there is for the rest of my life.

I shuffle across the floor
towards the bedside table and open the top drawer. I slide my hand
inside and reach for the advert I tore out of the newspaper. I’ve
folded it over and over until it’s a tiny, crumpled piece of black
and white paper. I press it to the wooden floor and unfold it,
carefully smoothing it back into shape again, then stare at it
through the haze of unshed tears.

The Cambridge Women’s Centre
holds weekly Rape Crisis group therapy sessions on Mondays at 7.00
p.m. No appointments are necessary.

The next meeting is tonight.

Inhaling a deep breath, I stare
at the ceiling, summoning the strength to start another day, and
make myself promise. I have to go to the session. The effort of
keeping it all inside makes me feel as if I’m going to crack
up.

Slowly, I rise and clear up the
broken glass, wrapping it carefully in newspaper before depositing
it wearily in the kitchen bin. It’s five a.m., and I’ve had about
four hours’ sleep. That’s a good night for me.

I dress in black trousers and a
black shirt with “Imogen’s Coffee Shop” stitched in silver
lettering on the front. Even if it weren’t my uniform, I’d still be
wearing black. It’s the only colour that’s appropriate now.

It’s time to put my mask on.
Carefully, I apply foundation to even out my blotchy skin and hide
the dark circles. The thick black eyeliner, dark brown eye shadow,
and mascara hide my puffy eyes. Pink lipstick is the only bit of
colour I allow myself, and only then it’s to moisturize my dry
lips. I live my life behind a façade now. What’s that saying, “fake
it ’til you make it”? That’s what I do. I fake my life. Go through
the motions of smiling and laughing and pretending to be me when
I’m at work, but inside no one knows I’m a living dead girl. A
ghost. People surround me all day at work, but I’ve never been more
isolated. When your soul cries, no one can hear it, and the wounds
you can’t see hurt the most.

I undo the four locks on the
door of my flat that I painstakingly check and recheck every night
when I get back from work, and walk down the stairs that lead to a
car park at the back of the building. At least I don’t have far to
go to work. Within a minute, I’m around the side of the building
and at the front door of the coffee shop below my flat. I unlock
the door and step inside, locking it behind me. I have two and a
half hours to bake the morning’s cakes and cookies before Lisa
arrives and we open up to a swarm of commuters and students from
the nearby university campuses.

I walk around the counter and
turn on the coffee machines then head through a doorway that leads
to the kitchen to immerse myself in the ritual of mixing dough and
batter. Concentrating on these tasks I’ve done for years is the
only time I can almost forget about that night. Almost shut down.
Even though it’s mundane, and I’ve done it a million times
before—could probably do it on autopilot—it gives me a sense of
familiarity, like maybe the only part of me who’s still normal is
the part that can bake. Work is the only thing that stops me
falling apart completely.

I leave the final batch of
muffins in the oven and make sure the counter is stocked with
everything we need for the first rush. I make myself a latte, and
as I take the first sip, Lisa appears at the door and knocks.

I can’t believe she’s leaving
soon. She’s worked here for almost a year, since Aunt Imogen packed
up and went to Spain to retire, leaving me to run the coffee shop
without her. Lisa’s the only one I feel close to, and even she
doesn’t know the real me. I couldn’t bear for her to look at me
differently if she did.

She smiles and rubs her swollen,
pregnant belly absentmindedly.

I smile broadly back at her. The
façade is firmly in place as I open the door and give her a
hug.

Lisa laughs when her belly gets
in the way. ‘I can’t wait for her to come out now. I’m sick of
bumping into things!’

‘I’ll miss you round here,’ I
say, following her into the kitchen where she grabs a green apron
and ties it behind her back.

‘Well, you can’t get rid of me
that easily. I’ll be in all the time to see you.’ Her blue eyes
sparkle, radiating health and happiness, and for a fleeting moment,
I want what she has. A husband who adores her more than anything, a
new baby on the way, knowing what it feels like to have true love.
Yes, I want a real life.

I shake the thought away because
I know it’s impossible. I’ll never have that now. I’m damaged.
Destroyed. There’s no room for happiness in my life.

‘You’d better come and see me,’
I say. ‘Although I think you’ll be a bit too busy with baby bump to
come in here after she’s born.’

‘Well, you can come and see me.
You need to get out more, instead of working too hard here. You’re
too young not to be having fun. Before you know it, you’ll have a
guy and a baby on the way, and your life won’t be your own anymore,
so enjoy it while you can.’ She looks down at her belly and strokes
it again with a smile. ‘Not that I’m complaining. I’m so totally
ready to be a mum.’

The timer for the muffins sounds
in the kitchen. I’m relieved I don’t have to answer her questions
again, about why I don’t go out with my friends and enjoy myself
like normal twenty-two-year-olds.

I take the muffins out of the
oven and place them on a rack to cool then transfer all the other
cakes and cookies to the glass screen behind the counter. Lisa
checks the coffee machines are ready to go.

‘So, have you put an advert in
the paper for another barrista?’ Lisa asks. ‘Because if not, you’re
leaving it a bit late to replace me. I’ve only got a few days
left.’

I roll my eyes at her. ‘No.’
I’ve probably been in denial about her leaving. I don’t want her to
go, but at the same time, I know she has to. I don’t want anyone
else working in close proximity with me. Don’t want the questions
from someone new, probing into my life. I can handle work on my
own. I want to stay busy so I can try to stop thinking.

She rolls her eyes back at me.
‘You can’t manage on your own here. It gets mega busy.’

I shrug and give her a confident
grin—one that I’ve perfected over the last year. ‘I like being
busy.’

‘Grace, you need someone else to
help you.’ She rests her hands on her hip, trying to give me a
stern look, but the smile beneath it shines through.

‘You’ll need to practice your
Mummy look a bit more if you’re going to tell baby bump off. It’s
not working very well on me.’

She tosses her blonde hair over
her shoulder and chuckles. ‘Well, Jack can be the disciplinarian.
I’m going to be a softy, I can tell.’ Then she glares at me.
‘Except with you, young lady.’

‘Young lady! Hah! You’re only
five years older than me. And, actually, I’m your boss.’ I smirk.
‘So, you can’t tell me off.’

‘What are you going to do, fire
me?’ She smirks back and tosses a tea towel over her shoulder. ‘But
seriously, this is too much for you to do on your own. You look
tired enough as it is.’

My eyes widen slightly.
She’s
noticed?

I
am
tired. It’s like I’m
running on nervous energy and pure adrenaline half the time.

‘What does Imogen think about
hiring someone else?’ Lisa asks.

I shrug. Aunt Imogen doesn’t
give a shit about the coffee shop anymore. And she’s never cared
about me. I’ve hardly spoken to her since she retired to Spain. She
couldn’t wait to leave as soon as I turned twenty-one and she could
wash her hands of all responsibility for me. Still, at least she’d
left me the coffee shop, which I’m grateful for, even if I do have
to give her half the profits.

‘Actually, I haven’t told her
you’re leaving. She doesn’t run the place anymore, I do.’

‘Well, surely she wouldn’t want
you working your arse off on your own here.’

I raise an eyebrow. ‘You’ve
never met Imogen.’

She claps her hands together. ‘I
know. Why don’t you put a notice on the door advertising for staff?
Actually, I’ll do it for you, since you probably won’t bother.’ She
goes into the small office just off the kitchen and comes back a
few minutes later with a piece of paper and some tape. She’s
written “Help Wanted, Apply Within” on the paper.