CHASE THE BUTTERFLIES

One

The butterfly develops through a process called metamorphosis. This means transformation.

The First Stage: Egg

Nine Months Later

“I’m so sorry, Tori. I couldn’t protect you like I promised I would.”

I remember staring blankly out the window of our once cherished home, feeling nothing but numbness.

“I wish I could have been the man you deserved, needed. I just…I f****d up. I’ll never forgive myself for what I did.”

These are all excuses, lies.

“I can’t stay here. There are just too many…memories. I can’t live in this home any longer. Forgive me. I tried to stay strong, but I just can’t. You’re so…distant. Cold. You don’t want to come back to me.”

“You’re a f*****g coward!” I scream. It’s the only thing I’ve said to him in months.

Tears stung his eyes, and without a single word, he closed the door to our home, to our future, without even saying goodbye.

A chair is still a chair even when there’s no one sitting there.

But what happens when the chair in question is the same chair which broke apart your life because you found your fiancé screwing your sister on it—or, more accurately, over it. Looking down at the malevolent object, I realize I should have left it back in Bridgeport as I did with my ex-fiancé.

The silk feels smooth and regal as I run my finger along the top, bringing back happy memories of when this chair sat in front of our bay window, overlooking the immaculate landscaped gardens and vibrant vine maple trees. I lost count of how many hours I spent snuggled in this chair, reading my favorite books, or more commonly, correcting my third-grade students’ papers.

I felt like a queen sitting on her throne when Bryan would sneak in with a chai tea in hand, placing it down in front of me, before kissing me lovingly on the brow. He then left just as quietly as he entered.

When the tea and kisses stopped, I should have known something was askew. But I was so preoccupied with trying to pull through the hardest time of my life that I missed all the warning signs. But even if I did, would I have wanted to know? I’m ashamed that the answer is no.

I’m a coward, I know that, but sometimes, ignorance is truly bliss. I would give anything to wipe away the memory of coming home to find my fiancé screwing someone who supposedly was family.

The constant nightmares of the night that changed my life forever seemed like a walk in the park compared to having my heart broken by two people I loved most in this world. Whether it was the sheer terror or the betrayal, I’ll never know, but I was sick right then and there, disrupting an o****m that was rightfully mine when I caught them.

I wanted to believe that by some miracle my soul mate wasn’t having an affair with my sister, but brutal acts of violence, they turn you into a survivor. They force you to face hardships that most times you’re not ready to face.

So I refused to allow my fight for survival to be in vain. My empty chest wouldn’t allow it either. I moved out that same night. I expected some kind of explanation, an apology from either Matilda or Bryan, but all I got was a slap in the face, and by slap, I mean three weeks later, our four-bedroom, foursquare-style home was on the market and sold within the month. It was prime real estate, the realtor had said, but to me, it was a wasteland where my dreams had gone to die. I didn’t object when I saw the FOR SALE sign because I couldn’t live in a home which entombed too many bitter memories.

I hadn’t spoken to Bryan for months. I knew it wasn’t his fault, but I lost interest in day-to-day activities. I was a shell of the person I once was. I felt cut off and detached from my family and friends. I should have felt something, anything―I mean, I had been assaulted and then caught my fiancé cheating with my own flesh and blood, but funnily enough, I just felt numb.

Today is the first day in my new house—a run-down, isolated waterfront home in northeastern Connecticut, the place I moved to when I was fourteen. It may not be much to look at, but with two acres of untouched land, it’s perfect to escape the commotion I’ve just lived through.

I promised myself that with a new home comes new memories. Slumping into the revolting chair, the chair which caused this trip down misery lane, I grasp that I’m a fool for ever believing that I could do this. It’s been endless days since this all started, but it still feels like day one.

My miserable reflection stares back at me from the grimy window, a reflection of someone who doesn’t resemble me. My chestnut brown hair is short and styled into a bob, just past my ears. The style seems to emphasize my enormous hazel eyes which were never this big, but violence and heartache turned me into someone I no longer recognize.

I miss my long hair. I suppose I miss a lot of things. Clutching at the shorter strands, I appreciate that my hair can grow back. It can grow healthy and long, and I can almost forget why I wear it short. The same can’t be said for the reoccurring nightmares which knock at my mind every time I close my eyes.

But I was going to get better. I was determined to live. But the thing about PTSD is that it doesn’t discriminate—it hates us all. My determination may have saved my life, but it didn’t save my relationship. It tore it apart. I could see it every time Bryan looked at me. I was a victim. In his eyes, he failed me. He couldn’t protect me. I made him feel less of a man. If he ever confessed to the affair, it would have been one of the spineless reasons he used for why he cheated with Matilda in the first place. She made him feel wanted.

I tried to talk to him, to tell him how I felt, but every time I opened my mouth, the words would get caught in my throat. I closed myself off to him, and I didn’t understand why. I think a part of me blamed him for not fighting harder. We drifted apart, regardless of how hard I tried to stay anchored. The doctors said it was normal after everything I’d been through, but I felt anything but normal.

So I suppose one can’t blame me for looking at this chair with nothing but contempt and…violence. I will never associate anything good with this piece of furniture because this, just like the past ten years of my life, has been one big f*****g joke. But unlike my memories, which I cannot set on fire, I can however, burn this chair.

The tranquility I once experienced, even the numbness I felt when this entire shitstorm started, begins to slowly ebb away, and unexpectedly, my composure, my indifference, floats away, and all I’m left with is murderous, spiteful rage.

I jump up like the chair is on fire. Images of this immaculate white settee being literally set on fire stokes my inner anger, and I move before my brain can chastise me for being so reckless. I’m sick of being cool, calm, and collected. I’m sick of not screaming from the rooftops about what a lying, cowardly scumbag my ex-fiancé is, and how my sister betrayed me beyond belief. But most of all, I’m sick of the hand I’ve been dealt. Why me? What did I do to deserve this? I have no direction. I have no freaking clue what comes next.

But what I do know is that my future starts with burning this bloody chair.

I won’t rule out that I’m currently possessed because I can’t believe my small, feeble frame of one hundred and twenty-five pounds is dragging this antique wooden chair across the slippery floorboards. But running on pure adrenaline and fury allows you to become the strongest person in the world.

Reaching for a perfectly positioned bottle of whiskey off the kitchen counter, I toe open the glass doors which lead out into my large backyard. Hauling with all my might, I pull the chair. It drags noisily down the weathered stairs, but I keep on persevering; only stopping when my body shudders in near defeat. I’m breathless, my entire body screams from exhaustion, and my brow is covered in sweat, but I don’t allow that to stop me as I hunt through the pockets of my butterfly print sundress to find my pack of matches and joint.

Once my fingers pass over my lifelines, I lunge for the bottle of Jameson that is sitting on the couch cushions and unscrew the lid. Taking a quick swig, I then commence to pour the brown liquid all over the pristine chair, its dirty color staining the white shade perfectly. I only stop when there is a shot left in the bottle.

Unable to wait, I drag the match along the striker and watch it sizzle to life a second later. The flickering flame burns in sync with my frantic heart, but suddenly, my insanity comes to a screeching halt, and I gasp, appalled at what I was going to do.

What will my neighbors across the lake think of me? Not even in my home for twenty-four hours and already I’m disturbing the peace with my need for vengeance. The flame fizzles out, and I sigh, hating how weak I am.

Gulping down the last of my alcohol, I stand mute, my eyes fixated on the chair and everything it represents. The joint is my only reprieve, the only thing which got me through the nightmares and the breakup of my relationship.

“Victoria, I really wish you wouldn’t smoke that.” I can hear Bryan scolding me loud and clear.

I was too afraid to push the boundaries, wanting to please the only man I had ever loved. And in return, he crapped all over my loyalty and made me feel a fool.

The cool breeze licks at my heated skin, and the sensation sends a sudden zing through me. I know what I have to do.

Looking over my shoulder, I ignore the feeling I’m being watched, and proclaim, “No more reservations, Victoria. From this day forward, I demand you to change. You survived the hardest few months of your life, and it’s your turn to be free. It’s your turn to live.”

Placing the smoke between my lips, I pull out another match and strike it, shielding it with my trembling hand as I light the joint. Sucking in a deep, heavy drag, I feel my insides automatically chill and bask in the afterglow that helps me forget what a mess I am.

The flame soon burns my fingers, but instead of blowing it out, I squeeze my eyes shut and flick the match into the unknown. A moment later, the unknown makes itself known, and just like I predicted, when my past goes up in flames, nothing has ever felt sweeter.

“Welcome home, Victoria Armstrong. Here’s to the new you.”