I can’t breathe.
The room squeezed.
Stagnant unhappiness rained.
Tears ran backward down my throat as I forbid them to stream from my eyes.
I was grateful Master A had gone.
But I screamed at the hole Mr. Prest left behind. A hole that’d been warm and almost content for a few stolen hours now whistled with gales of cavernous fear.
Did he really just walk out the door?
Without a goodbye?
Without a…
What?
A thank you?
What did you expect? He gave you pleasure. He let you sleep peacefully. He gave you more gifts than anyone, and you expect more from him?
I laughed soundlessly. I was an idiot. A dead idiot.
I sucked air as my pulse two-stepped than four-stepped, desperately trying to calm.
You don’t have time for this!
Breathe!
The moment Mr. Prest was kicked from the house, Master A would return. And he wouldn’t have the gun with him. He’d have much more inventive ways to kill me. Ways that gave him entertainment and pleasure.
If only he’d left the weapon on the bed.
I would’ve grabbed it, turned the muzzle on myself, wrapped my fingers around the trigger, and said goodbye.
I would’ve traded any hope of heaven by committing suicide just for the tease of finally being free from this purgatory. I would welcome death with frost feathered wings, hoping I’d paid enough atonement for a better life.
How will I survive this?
As my mind ran riot, and my body continued to suffocate on terror, I compiled a last will and testament in my head.
Not that I had anything to give.
I flew back to the past and my room in London, reliving dinners with my mother at our window bay table and sneaking in trash TV when I was supposed to be doing homework. I went over my meagre childish belongings that, at the time, had felt so important and were now completely inconsequential.
To my mother, I bequeath my rare collection of English stamps. To my friend, Amanda, I leave my DVD collection of Anne of Green Gables—
Stop it, Mouse. Just…stop it.
I winced.
I’d called myself Mouse—just like Mr. Prest. I’d spent too long in my memories, too long with a man who made me remember another way of living.
I collapsed in shock and horror, stumbling to the mattress but landing on my knees instead. My heart pulled out its drum set to crash on castanets and cymbals.
Don’t let him hurt me. Not again.
I would’ve preferred to be shot.
A hundred times over.
I wanted my first kiss to be my final memory. I wanted to go into a never-ending sleep where I found my father and he had my Minnie Mouse watch. I wanted so many things that I would never earn.
But as much as my heart ached, and I wished to hate Mr. Prest for making me live if only for a moment before death, I couldn’t despise him. He’d done what he said and got me out of his system. He’d kissed me to rid any hold I had over him.
He’d given me no other promises. In fact, his only oath was that he would use me and then leave me.
He’d upheld that oath.
I wasn’t his.
I was Master A’s, and the rental agreement was up.
Fighting back abandonment and foolishness far, far painful than any abusive wounds I’d suffered, my world once again went dark as I closed my eyes and prepared to meet my end.
I grabbed the sheet, yanking it to cover myself. However, something crinkly fluttered with the whiteness, landing on the floor beside me.
The shock of something unknown interrupted my panic attack.
What on earth?
Hiccupping, I sat upright. My hands shook as I picked up the dollar bill.
An American dollar bill.
But it wasn’t folded like normal money. It wasn’t flat or creased in half like other well-transacted currency. This was in the shape of a tiny butterfly complete with wings and delicate feelers.
The light green of the note gave the illusion the wings were made of thread and ink while its body cocooned with the numerical value of paper wealth.
It’s so pretty.
But where did it come from?
The answer was obvious.
Him.
But why?
Fingering the linen parchment, I flashed with anger. My panic attack faded, finding strength once again. Was this Mr. Prest’s way of paying me for what we’d done? Was I only worth a dollar to him?
Instead of pretty origami, all I saw was something cheap. Something that made me cheap.
Was our kiss that worthless?
Tossing it away, the flash of black writing begged me to unfold it.
I didn’t relish the notion of destroying the creation—even if it was demeaning—but curiosity itched too hard. I scooped up the little butterfly, then tugged on the folded lines to reveal the note inside.
Scrawled with masculine penmanship the letter read:
I came here to get you out of my thoughts. But you fell asleep, and I’m beginning to doubt I will ever achieve that. For a man like me, that is an issue. Therefore, I’m leaving the moment you wake up.
Goodbye, silent one.
That was it.
No odes of promises to come back or hints that he’d request to share me again. He’d had his one night and been honest enough that I wasn’t enough to capture his attention.
His words sharpened until they glittered with stinging barbs, delivering venom into my heart.
Don’t hate him.
Don’t die with hatred.
If that was the only pleasure I had, at least I knew what it felt like.
I have to tell No One.
I have to write it down so I never forget.