Crânio Borboleta (COMPLETED)

Chapter Ten

Juliette

It was about four or five months later. Sean started a new tradition; every other Friday, he or his friends would take turns raping me. I was surprised I wasn't pregnant. I came to school every other Monday with fresh cuts and bruises from them, then regular bruises and cuts from Sean and Winona. George wasn't sober enough to help me. Vern had disappeared. Taylor had told me Ian wanted to break up because I was sad all the time. I was surprised I didn't care. But then again, I didn't care about anything, really.

I was failing my classes. I couldn't think straight anymore. My emotional and physical pain were blocking me from success. Clay and I still weren't talking. Taylor found a boyfriend and was with him most of the time. I had no where to go, no one to talk to.

I began skipping class.

******

I was hiding in the girls locker room during Gym. My welts were opened and every time I hunched over, they stung, but every time I sat straight, they stung too. I just wanted the pain to go away for a fucking second.

After Gym was over, I walked alone to Art. I sat at my table, my earbuds in, my music loud, my emotions off. Ian and Clay soon arrived. Avery switched out of the class to be in the advanced Art. I was the only girl. Neither boy said anything to me, and I didn't dare look in their direction. I still had no idea what to do for my project. Mr. Truman suggested many things, but I just couldn't agree with what he was saying. Everything  he said I drew, I drew with a certain type of pain. I didn't agree with him because I didn't want him to know I was in pain. I was an awful liar.

I was glaring at my blank sheet of paper, seeing others beginning to use the large pieces to practice for the real deal. My lips hurt so bad.

"Jules," Mr. Truman said, walking over to me. "You still have nothing. Why is that?"

I didn't respond. He touched my back and I cried out, falling over the table. Everyone was staring at me at this point. I couldn't handle the millions of questions Truman, Clay and Ian were asking me. I ran out of class and to a girl's restroom. I glared at my back in the mirror and let out a sob. I was so ugly. I had to stop crying. But I was in so much pain. What did I do to deserve this? This awful life.

I grabbed my things and walked home.

      I was in the tub. Winona was staying with her mother, George was looking for a job, and Sean would be going to his friends after school was over, which it wasn't. In case anyone came home, I made sure the door was locked. Old, sad music blared over a speaker, and I took in a deep breath of water, slowly exhaling as I sunk under the water. I could hear my slow heart. I didn't know how long I stayed underwater, but I started to get pruney. I could hold my breath for a long time. The water and soap felt okay on my wounds.

   After my bath, I bandaged myself up and pulled on a sweatshirt and leggings, laying on my bed, looking through my empty sketchbook. I tried to think hard, but not too hard about what to draw. Juliette, just think Juliette. What would Juliette draw?

As I thought of things to draw, my mind began to shift to my mother. My real mother. Kaprice. Kaprice Dawson. I would think of my mother here and there, but when I would, I wouldn't stop. The thought of her wouldn't go away for such a long time. I would try to fight it a lot, but now... I just wanted to relive a memory.

******

"Come on, butterfly!" Momma cried as she ran out to the backyard of our two-story home barefoot in a white and baby-blue dress, her fawn hair flowing in the wind. I giggled excitedly and followed behind in the same colored dress, my long hair half down, the other half in a little bun. My bare feet stroked the soft grass, and it tickled my tiny toes. Momma disappeared into the woods, and I followed her crunching footsteps.

I jumped on large rocks and over dead tree trunks to catch up with her, and when I did, I held her hand and we ran together, the fresh pine smell lifting our spirits. We reached the other side of the woods after a few minutes and on the other side was a wheat field. We collapsed in a patchy spot and laid on our backs, looking at the cloudless, blue sky. The sun burned my eyes, but I liked it.

Soon, Momma sat up and sat me up, sitting across from me, both of our legs crossed. She outstretched her arms to the side and gently waved her body with the wheat as the wind blew it gently side to side. I did the same as her, and she hummed beautifully with her eyes closed. I closed my eyes and listened to her humming, the humming warm and sweet and lovely, like honey. We both loved honey.

"Be one with the wind and everything in nature, butterfly," Momma whispered. "When times are tough, just flow. Flow with the world and let it gently carry you through life, teaching you all of the wonderful things it holds. Do not fight. Just breathe. And bring peace to the wars in your mind."

She always told me this. Momma was so wise. She began to sing one of her songs, and it warmed my heart as I flowed to her lyrics. When Momma sang, it felt like Daddy wasn't around. That we could be happy and live to the fullest. Momma was only twenty-two. She had me at sixteen. Daddy didn't care about me like she did. Momma was my favorite.

I peeked at my Momma and I saw tears on her face as she sang. It was a sad song. Momma was sad 'cause she was thinking about Daddy. She had a fresh bruise on her upper cheek. I knew it was from him. Momma was always so happy in front of everyone, including me, but inside, she was broken. Damaged.

I crawled to her and sat in her lap. She looked at me as I rested my small hands on her skinny cheeks and she sighed softly, her hands holding mine.

"You're so beautiful, butterfly," she whispered.

"You're so more beautifuller, Momma," I whispered back. "So brave."

A small, single tear escaped from her eye and she held me to her chest.

"Promise me, butterfly," she whispered. "Promise me you'll never, ever lose your happiness. Your hope. Your freedom. Your peace. Your love."

I looked at my beautiful momma and she kissed my head. I kissed hers back in return. "I promise, Momma."

I opened my eyes. I was on my back, looking at my ceiling. A pen was in my right hand. My sketchbook was in my left. A single tear trickled down my right cheek. I slowly looked at my sketchbook. There was a drawing. A drawing of a skull turning into a butterfly. A beautiful butterfly, a beautiful skull. Such a sad meaning.

This would be it. My drawing for Art. My meaning. My happiness, my hope, my freedom, my peace. My love.

. . .

My momma...