NUMB.
That’s how I felt sitting in the passenger seat of his Mercedes SUV as he drove me home in suffocating silence. That’s how I felt when he barely slowed down the vehicle for me to climb out, and that’s how I feel now opening the door to my apartment.
Rafferty had been thoughtful enough to bring my crossbody bag with us after he drugged me so I could have my keys and phone when he was done with me. Well, done with me for the night. He’s made it clear he’s nowhere near being done with me. He’s just getting started.
All I want to do is take a scalding-hot shower and climb into bed so I can sleep off the events of tonight. Hopefully, I don’t dream about the cemetery. Over the past years, I’ve found refuge in dreaming about Rafferty. The fact that he will now cause me nightmares is heartbreaking. All I can do is hope I can at least get some sleep.
Tomorrow will be too long of a day to be exhausted. I have a twelve-hour shift at the studio.
Until now, I’ve been supervised by the owner of the studio. After over a week of training, they say I’m ready to teach my classes by myself. They know I know the material backward and forward as I’ve been dancing since I was younger than my students. The little girls’ cute faces as they twirl around the mirrored room always make me smile, but they also have waves of crushing self-pity slamming into me.
I was their age when I decided I wanted to go to Juilliard. Of course, I was too young to understand what the prestigious school truly was. All I knew or cared about was that the people who went there became the dancers in the most reputable and famous ballet companies. They were who I wanted to be when I grew up. I wanted people to travel to see the productions I was in. I wanted my name to be listed on the program they passed out to the audience before each performance.
The little girls I teach remind me of the optimistic girl I was, and the fact that I let her down and probably broke her heart.
All hopes for a restful night’s sleep go out the window when I open my bedroom door and something with wings darts into my face. Startled, my eyes squeeze shut out of instinct and my hands wave wildly in front of my nose to dispel what I’m thinking is just probably a moth.
When I squint one eye open to check if the coast is clear, I make the alarming discovery that I was very much wrong. It wasn’t a moth, and it certainly wasn’t just one of them.
It’s impossible to count them, but there must be at least a hundred butterflies soaring about my room. The ones that aren’t flying around are perched on every available surface they can find. From the shelf on my wall with pictures of my dad and me, to the pillow on my bed, orange and black butterflies take up residence.
Holy shit…
Completely dumbfounded with my jaw basically on the floor, I take it all in. How the hell has Rafferty managed to do this? When did he do this? Based on the current time, I wasn’t passed out that long. There is no way he had time to come here, release butterflies in my room, and then drive across town to the cemetery.
The only possible answer is he’s getting help. An uneasy feeling creeps up my spine knowing that a stranger had managed to not only get into my apartment but had also been in my room. Who knows what they did or touched while they had free access to my personal space and items.
I’m frozen in place until they start to fly in the direction of the door I hold open. Stepping fully into the room, I quickly shut the door behind me and thwart their escape.
“How the hell am I going to get you all out of here?” I question aloud with a pitiful whine. “All I wanted to do was go to bed.” That’s not going to happen until every last one of these things is gone.
The window is my only hope.
With my hands making constant movements in front of my face to stop the insects from dive-bombing me, I make my way across the room. The window isn’t big by any means. It would probably be easier to let them into the main living area of the apartment because at least there’s a larger door that leads to the quaint balcony. The only reason I don’t attempt to do it is because I don’t want Zadie to come home and find her apartment completely overtaken by bugs.
More importantly, I don’t want her to ask why they’re here. That’s a conversation I can’t fathom going well.
Why are there butterflies in here? Well, you see, when I was sixteen, I broke a promise, and it resulted in Rafferty’s mom dying. It was horrible and tragic, and now five—almost six—years later he’s getting his revenge.
Attempting to have that dialogue would result in so many questions that I can’t ever answer. It’s best I just get rid of the evidence while she’s still at the party.
Whatever ones I don’t get through the window, I’m going to need to trap in a cup or something and release myself. By the looks of things, I won’t be taking that shower I desperately want anytime soon.
Goddammit, Rafferty.
