Unsettled: Thriller Standalone Page 3

  Ripping my eyes off of her back, I scan the path, my feet almost losing grip with the jolt that races along my spine. We're almost to the final stretch, my little butterfly's pace starting to slow as she relaxes a bit. I choke down the knot in my tightening throat, taking a quick look behind my back as we get swallowed up by more trees, the path becoming more and more secluded with every step that's slapped onto the pavement.

  I've thought about this so many times that it almost feels surreal to finally be here, in this moment. The anticipation has been gnawing at my neck like a rabid dog, ripping and tearing into my will to be patient from the second my eyes landed on my butterfly's ebony wings. The sweat slicking down my nape, dripping between my shoulder blades, scrapes along the goosebumps lining my skin. I’m so close, that if I wanted, I could reach out and run my fingertips along the soft fabric of my Limenitis camilla's shirt. My lips part as I mentally count down the seconds, knowing exactly how many steps it'll take us to get to a very specific curve in the path.

  Four Mississippi.

  The pounding in my chest is almost painful; my feet shadowing my butterfly’s perfectly.

  Three Mississippi.

  I can smell that intoxicating sweet scent of her hair, almost feel the dark strands as they wave back toward my face.

  Two Mississippi.

  My gaze leaves her for just a fraction of a moment, flickering between her ebony wings and the weeping willow we're coming up to.

  One Mississippi.

  My fingers grace along the back of her head, whispering through the strands of her hair, my fingertips burning against the soft silk before sinking into her scalp. My leg comes forward with hers, looping around the front of her shin while my elbow and hand shove her head forward. Her hair turns violent, almost slicing my fingers as she catapults toward the pavement, ebony strands burning from my palm as her face meets the ground with a wet slap and crunch that mutes the startled yelp that cried from her lips.

  She slides forward on the pavement, body momentarily scrunching like an accordion as her arms, hands, and face scratch along the course ground; an earbud flying from her ear to skip and roll off the path. Almost heaving, I step over her moaning, writhing form and purposefully step onto a hand that's blindly searching the ground by her head. There's already a small splattering of blood painted across the pavement from her initial hit; abstract art spread around to accentuate the soft fluttering of her dark wings. It's so beautiful I almost get lost in it, but her low groan draws my attention back to the task at hand, and I tug my fingerless gloves from my pocket, slipping them on as I watch her slowly wiggle under me.

  I bend over, bring the end of her long, tangled ponytail to my face, and take a deep breath, savoring the floral beauty until I'm forced to exhale. My tongue comes out to wet my lips as I wind it around my fist, slowly wrapping it around and around and around until it's so tight I almost can't feel my fingers. Digging into the hair at the base of the elastic, I tilt my butterfly’s face up off the pavement to admire the red and brown mixed over her beautiful features. She's making small little noises, eyes trying to fight their way open.

  Fuck, I want to kiss her, taste the dirt clinging to her cheeks, lick the blood from her teeth. But this isn't about my selfish wants this time; this is all about my butterfly. I've thought long and hard about this, spent nights sweating in my sheets over the images. Today, my butterfly will finally be flawless. She will finally be perfect.

  Just as her eyes flutter open under my gaze, I slam her face back into the ground, watch her nose crunch, and lips split even more. More blood sprays along the ground, and I force myself to move my face from the prime viewing position to hover over her back. I want to see everything, but I can't risk getting overly dirty. Lifting her face, I slam it back down again, eyes fixed on the ground, frantically shifting over the pavement to watch every spray and drop turn black where it lands.

  Over and over and over, I slam her head down, the blood starting to pool around her threatening to stain the tips of my sneakers as it creeps close. Her chest stopped moving long ago; her fingers are no longer scratching at the ground, legs no longer quivering between mine. She hasn’t made any sounds in a long while, but I couldn’t help but keep using her as my paintbrush, to stamp her into the pavement with pretty shades of red.

  My hands are shaking and my arms tired when I finally stop. I take my time unwrapping her ebony locks, my fingers tinted a light purple, the edges of my knuckles etched with red lines from being pinched for so long. I step back toward her legs before the red ripples surrounding her can reach me, lips parting as I stare down at what can only be described as absolute perfection.

  My butterfly’s arms are fanned out from her body, one bent oddly toward herself while the other reaches past her head, palm up. Her face is flat against the pavement, perfectly fitted to every bump and ripple in the course ground, the blood sprayed around her almost reminiscent of a pair of torn and mangled wings. I can't help the laugh that bubbles up from me, my hand coming up to cover my mouth as I smile down at her.

  I knew she'd be nothing short of stunning.

  I just knew it.

  It takes me a few tries to unzip the pocket on my joggers, my hands trembling as I pull out the black and white origami butterfly I’d made last night for her. I was careful when tucking it into my pocket this time; I wanted its wings to be as perfect as my butterfly. Holding it up, I cover her head from my view, the red wings stroking lovingly along the pavement wrapped around the small piece of paper. Stunning. Lifting my foot over her, I step off to the side, careful not to step into the growing murky puddle that's seeping into her clothes. I bend and carefully place the butterfly in her palm, skimming my fingertips along her skin as I stand.

  Pulling my eyes from her, I look down at my clothes, hands brushing over my shirt as I feel for wetness. A small amount of red stains my fingertips when I lift them for inspection, but I shrug it off. My clothes and shoes are all black, so it's virtually impossible to see it. As long as I don't touch anything, people will just assume I'm sweaty from my run. Slowly backing away, I admire the way the early sun's rays glimmer through the weeping willow’s branches, how the shadows twist over my butterfly’s still form.

  I know I need to get back to my run, that I have maybe twenty minutes before the other routine runners come this way, but I wish I could stay all day. I wish I could sit and listen to Shakira playing from her earbud that’s hidden in the grass and watch the blood dry and crust along the edges of her smooth skin. It's truly unfair how little time I get with my butterflies. Turning away, I start to run once more. My eyes fix on the path, forcing my body to move and not turn back.

  Picking up my pace, my knees almost knock together with every step that brings me closer to the end of the path. I can already feel the heat of my skin turning cold now that my butterfly is left behind. I have to remind myself that they may only be mine for a short time face to face, but they live forever in my collection. And my Limenitis camilla will look immaculate hanging next to all the others, her dusty wings frayed along the edges and cracked down the middle.

  Like anyone who collects things, though, I'm never quite satisfied with what I have. I can already feel the need to start searching for my newest find, feel the tug in my chest urging me for more. But I know that can wait, I need to let my butterfly rest in her box for a bit before I move onto my next pretty. She deserves the attention after such a beautiful performance.

  I break from the tree line, curving toward the east park gate. Out of breath, I lean over and palm my knees once I get to the sidewalk, eyes briefly flicking to the side as a man comes to stand near the bus stop with me.

  "Must have been a good run."

  I huff at his remark, a smirk twisting my lips as I straighten and watch the bus pull in front of us. "It was perfect."

  Leaning my head back, I close my eyes as I listen to the priest across the grass. I can't actually hear what he's saying, but I can hear the faint mumblings of words
that drift between the space between us. Thankfully, they're behind me so I can sit here unseen, hidden with my back resting against Nana's tombstone. No one would care if they did see me here. People often visit the dead, but I'd prefer to just not be seen. I don't know exactly why I even come here. I personally don't even believe Nana is still here, floating around in this lonely graveyard waiting for me to prattle on about my latest issue. I don't know where she is, if she even is anywhere, but it's not here. Still, something about being close to something that belongs to her, where I'd last seen her, is comforting to me, I guess.

  Opening my eyes, I stare out at the orange and purple billowing in the sky, pink clouds floating along the horizon as the sun sets. The day might be ending for most, but it's just beginning for me. I've always been a night owl, always preferred the chaotic bustle that comes after dark over the daylight traffic. There's something peaceful about being busy while others sleep.

  I hear sneakers squishing into the grass and turn my face in the direction of the sound. Only a moment later, Rhys's scowl comes into view, his hand pulling from his jean pockets to wave for me to shift over. I oblige his silent request, scooting over to make room for him. I'm here so often that the grass has died where I sit, rubbed away, so there's nothing but dirt that stains the butt of my pants. Rhys drops down beside me, long legs stretching in front of him as his side presses into mine. I turn my face away without comment, eyes falling to the rips in his denim. Unlike the jeans you can buy, I know his were made from actual use. They're also his favorite pair if the amount of times I've seen him in them says anything.

  Reaching to my side, I grab the pair of coffee cups I'd brought with me, passing one off to Rhys while resting my own between my drawn-up knees. Finding the thermos that was sitting in the grass beside them, I unscrew the top and fill my cup to the brim before handing that over as well. I don't watch as he fills his cup, but my lips do pinch together in quiet laughter when I hear his disgusted scoff.

  "Seriously, Hadley? You're so fucking weird." I look over at him in time to see his grimace as he gulps down half of his cup, eyes narrowing on my face as I take a long drink out of my own mug. The gin burns down my throat, bitter and earthy like pine needles. I think I like it because I can associate it with something I know, unlike other kinds of alcohol.

  "Am I, though? I'm visiting my Nana, and I like gin." I take another drink, smiling around the edge of my cup as he throws the rest of his back with a scrunched nose. "You're the one sitting in a graveyard without reason, chugging alcohol you don't even like. That seems weird to me."

  He sets his empty mug down, lips smacking as he leans back onto the tombstone. His head tilts my way as I follow his example, gulping back the rest of my drink. My rings clink against the cup as I palm it between the bend in my knees, my mood stone shining with a soft pink and purple. Colors I now only associate with Rhys. I don't know why he comes here almost every day to sit with me, but it's a part of my day I look forward to. We don't talk all that much here, but the silence is welcome. It's just nice having someone to sit in silence with. Someone who doesn't pressure me into talking about Nana or question why I spend so much time sitting on top of her grave.

  "Well, you would know all about being weird, wouldn't you?"

  I roll my eyes at his late retort, eyes skirting over his black university hoodie, over the necklaces resting just below the collar, and up to the hoops adorning the length of his ear. It doesn't matter what the weather is like, rain or shine, he is always in some type of hoodie or jacket. Most often, both. He uses his dark clothing and broody expressions as armor in the same way I use memories to keep the nightmares of my past at bay. It's obvious to everyone, including ourselves, that it's all for show. Fuck if you'll find us openly admitting it, though.

  My eyes find his staring back at me, probably waiting for me to respond. When it becomes obvious that I'm not going to, he brings a knee up to rest his arm over, veins running along his thick forearm earning most of my attention as his eyes flicker toward the darkening sky. "Your roots are showing."

  My fingernails tap along my empty cup, head leaning against the tombstone like before as I raise a brow at his profile. Although rude, he's not wrong. I do need to redo my hair. My black roots stick out like a sore thumb against the bright platinum strands that hang to just above my shoulders. It used to be shiny and long; so long, I would accidentally sit on it and shut it in doors. It was strong and healthy, would shine in the light, and slide through my fingers without ever having a single tangle. But it's not long anymore, nor is it shiny. A three AM mental breakdown, a pair of kitchen scissors, and two boxes of drugstore bleach is to thank for my hair transformation. I’ve never been attached to my hair, though. Hair is hair. It grows back, so who cares.

  "You always know exactly what to say to make a girl swoon, Rhys Elliot." I see the slight twitch of his lips before he catches it, his face turning my way. Long fingers push away the white blond hair that falls over his brow before reaching out to grip the short, chopped ends of mine. He tugs hard enough my head slides on the stone it's resting against, roots burning as my face falls closer to his. His hand retreats, pulling strands out with it that hang from his fingers before slipping into the dirt between us.

  "You should change it. Dye it purple or something cool." My teeth scrape along my bottom lip as he gives me his profile, eyes watching me from the corner. "And stop copying me; it makes you look pathetic."

  I've learned to look past his insults and rude remarks. I know they're only an attempt to keep people away. Of the few things I've learned about Rhys, I know he wasn't loved properly. He follows almost every compliment with an insult, hides any vulnerability behind bitter words and facial expressions. A product of a broken home and an abusive daddy, Rhys only sees sweet words and soft touches as an act of war. When kindness is only ever given to you as a way to manipulate, you learn to resent it; something I understand all too well, unfortunately. In the same way that I seek out attention, sweet or painful, Rhys avoids it. After spending time with him, I don't think it's because he doesn't actually want it, but because he's scared. Scared to let people get close to him, to trust that he won't be used in the long run.

  "It's tragic, really." His eyes narrow, but he doesn't look directly at me. "Your hair choice, that is. You have so much potential with the whole dark and broody bit you got going on, but that hair? Blond boys just don't do it for me."

  I bite the inside of my cheek with his small huff of a laugh, setting my cup off to the side without looking. Rhys tilts his face toward mine once more, the smirk on his lips daring me not to smile with him. I don't. "It's funny you mention it because I was just thinking the same thing about you." His fingers find their way back to my hair, scraping along the side of my head as he fists it in his palm. His touch is always rough with me; bruising and harsh. "Good thing neither one of us are natural blondes, huh?"

  For a fleeting moment, I almost think he's going to kiss me. His lips are hovering so near to mine, his grip burning against my scalp. The pain he inflicts is nothing but foreplay for my twisted little mind, and I shamelessly lust for it. When he's close like this, I can see those demons he tries to hide, their inky fingers coaxing my own to the surface. Instead, Rhys releases me, pushing away from me like he can't stand touching me even a moment longer. Like he doesn't know if he wants me or wants me dead.

  We could be destructive, him and I.

  Two beautifully tarnished souls making all the wrong, icky parts of the world just a tiny bit darker with our hearts of tar. The world is a cruel, nasty game of poker, and we were given the shittiest of hands. Tragedies you can't look away from, it's no question we were molded by the devil himself to be the broken, bitter carcasses we've become. And like the tragedies we are, we continue to walk our paths of sorrow, live in our misery over and over again, unable to break the cycle of hurt. Like puppies that have been kicked one too many times, we've grown untrusting and wary, even from the things we know could save us.
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br />   And I'd like to think I could save Rhys; that I could be his dark knight on my skeleton steed. As much as I love his shadows, I wonder what it would be like to be the one he falls into the dark with. What it would be like for him to be the one I fall into.

  Sometimes, I think he wonders the same thing.

  Arm snapping across my body, I grip the front of his hoodie, one of my fingers unintentionally looping into one of the chains hanging around his neck. It cuts into my skin as I squeeze my fist, and I use the slight bite of pain to spur my bravery. His eyes narrow on my face, hand wrapping around my wrist like he's going to throw my touch away. He sees something in my expression that makes him pause, and I rush his lips, sinking my teeth into his lower lip and jaw. He hisses into my mouth, the grip on my wrist becoming painful. My tongue swipes out to lap at the sting, sucking in the exhale he blows from his lungs.

  My lips close around his for just a whisper of something sweeter, kinder, before I pull back. I know I've already pushed my limits by lingering as long as I have. Wicked little stolen kisses are all he ever lets me get away with. Cruel, angry kisses that spur my heart into a frenzy and coaxes my blood to rush below my skin.

  His lips brush along mine when he speaks, my hand painfully shaking against his chest as his fingers squeeze even tighter. "I doubt your Nana would approve of you looking for handouts over her grave."