The Prince and His Butterfly

Prologue: Reed

Prologue: Reed

10 years ago…

When I was younger, I would curl into a ball in some ill-forgotten corner of my grimy room, holding out my arms in front of me. I would imagine touching the inside of my safe haven before I came into this miserable world. I would imagine myself, or try to drag up the memories, of me in the womb. I would picture my mother touching her stomach, touching me through the shell of her skin. I would also try and remember, and if not, imagine, me ripping her apart.

I imagine that’s why my father rapes me.

It started when I was 4—I could remember everything about that night, as much as I try not to. He had snuck into my small room, which was more of a closet than anything. His hands were warm and his stale breath smelled of whiskey. Usually he would beat me (the blood excited him more than any prostitute would), but tonight he didn’t. I can remember me stiffening for the blows that never came. Even at 4, I knew not to make a peep; it only angered him further.

Instead, he gently caressed my cheek. “My Annabel,” he crooned. I froze; I had only heard that name once before, in one of his drunken rages when he bellowed ‘You killed her! You killed my Annabel!’ He caresses my cheek again. Then he took me.

Over the years, I learned many things, even if my father didn’t let me go to school. He said murderesses aren’t allowed in school, they’d kill them too. And I believed him.

His four cardinal rules were so:

1)      You killed your mother.

2)      You deserved to go to jail; you were lucky to be with me.

3)      This was his right.

4)      Never, ever speak.

I had never broken these rules; it had been just over 3 years since that night when my father put a bag over my head. I didn’t dare to move. He bound my hands too, and half carried, half dragged me to his old car. He threw me in the trunk; I could see that much from the hood over my face. The rough rope dug into my wrists, and when the car lurched forward, I rolled, causing friction between the rope and my skin. The harsh sting told me I had broken skin, the warmth seeping down my hands only accentuating that fact. I only bled when I fell, or hurt myself in any other way, if father beat me, or if he got to rough late in the night. Afterwards, he would always whisper ‘I’m so sorry Annabel’. That was the only time I was allowed to turn away from him, when he thought I was my mother. He would gently tuck me in. I don’t cry anymore. Crying says your weak, or implies you feel—my now, I’m so numb I can’t feel myself anymore.

The car stopped again, and I was thrown against the back once more. The trunk opened and I was dragged out, pulled up a set of stairs, and thrust towards the ground.

The door opened. A woman’s voice sounded out. “What do you want William?”

My father’s voice was nervous, but excited too. “I brought payment. Take the girl, use her for anything. She won’t fight you.”

The woman’s voice rang out again. “And who is this?”

“My filthy daughter.” I don’t flinch at his words; he’s called me worse.

This time, her voice has anger in it. “You would dare sell your own daughter?”

“She’s no use to me. I’ll do anything to settle my debt.” His voice was tough, strong, and I knew this tone well. He would lose it soon, and hopefully not with the woman.

“I will take her; in exchange you leave and never come back.”

“But—“ She cut him off.