The Decimation of Mae (The Blue Butterfly) (12 page)

“Do you think I care about
wrong
?” He laughed
loudly, once more mocking me. “Even with your disfigurements, Mae, my clients
want you,
need
you. They ache for you, willing to outbid their
competition with extraordinary amounts of money.”

He leaned forward, a malicious glint in his eyes. “Once a
year, each year, I’ve watched you, lamb. Tracked your location then watched you
shop, watched you go to work, and then watched your self-pity through your
apartment window. I have viewed you deciding which bottle of wine to treat
yourself to each Christmas. It actually saddened me that you bought no gifts or
any small luxuries for yourself over the festive period. I saw you get mauled
by that fucker of a taxi driver when he thought you would pay for your ride in
other ways. I witnessed your tears every Christmas Eve on the stroke of
midnight, your huge eyes blinking in time with every single fairy light on your
poor excuse for a Christmas tree. I’ve observed your every breath for five days
prior to Christmas each year from my taking until your third year in which you
were ready for me.”

Each of his words caused another tear to drip from my
eyes. My soul deserted me, its weeping too painful to witness. My body gave in
and my mind closed down.

Master caught me as I fainted and slid off the bed.

I shuddered when the tickle from the trail of his
fingertip across my cheek brought back my consciousness. I didn’t want to open
my eyes; I didn’t want reality to once more pain me. Everything was so fucked
up, my whole life corrupted and blurred by lies and selfishness.

For the first time in a very long time I missed my
family. I missed the security of my mother’s arms, the soft but encouraging
smile from my father. Connie’s laugh.

“I know you are conscious, Mae. Open your eyes. Your
education needs to continue immediately.”

I sighed but slowly slid open my eyes. His face came into
focus immediately. He was close, his breath warm but far from comforting.
“Please,” I breathed. “Please let me be. I can’t do this anymore.”

He didn’t laugh as I had expected him to. Instead the tender
tilt of his lips and the gentle stroke of his finger caressed my every sense.
His eyes locked onto mine with something I couldn’t read. It confused me,
warping my already delicate thoughts.

His tongue stroked his bottom lip, catching my attention
as he brought his finger down the length of my facial scar. “This frustrates
me, lamb. Although it doesn’t spoil your beauty, it disfigures your spirit.”

I swallowed slowly. I didn’t like what his touch did to
my wild body. The arousal he created infuriated me, turned my body against my
mind, repulsing my very own thoughts. My throat closed in as my heart thundered
against my breastbone, the knock, knock, knock furious in its demand to be
heard. “You took my spirit three years ago. So tell me, Master, how can you see
its disfigurement when it’s already dead and gone?”

He cocked his head very faintly, his gaze troubled. He
twisted his lips and he inhaled deeply as though in serious thought. His touch
continued to idolise my mutilation, as if his many strokes over it would heal
the damage. “Your spirit is very much alive and passionate. I didn’t steal it
from you. You tried to give it me willingly, lamb; yet, look at you.” His
fingers moved around so he could cup my chin and position my face until I was
looking at him. “You have fought me every day since you awoke in here. You refuse
to relinquish your control. You still curse, you still argue and you still
believe.”

I scoffed and tried to shake my head out of his hold. “I
still believe in what, Master? You tell me I no longer own my own thoughts, my
decisions. Yet, here you are telling me the very opposite. Your frequent
demands gobble up my individuality. And I know you won’t stop until you have
devoured every last thought in my head, every single fibre of me and each piece
of my mind. So, please enlighten me as to how I still have spirit when your
relentless push to drive it from me is becoming more and more difficult to
fight against?”

He stared at me. I had already braced my body in
preparation for the backlash and annoyingly I cowered when he shot upright, although
I blinked in shock when he held out his hand. “Come with me.”

“I don’t want to.” I knew I was in trouble, the next few
hours of my life booked in the ‘correction centre’. I was tired. My body was
exhausted and my mind was weak. I wasn’t sure I could withstand any more
physical abuse. I knew he would give it me anyway so what did it matter if I goaded
him enough into dishing out my punishment in the comfort of my room; at least I
would have the butterflies to look at whilst he tried to beat all lucidity out
of me.

He rolled his eyes. “See, I told you that your spirit was
still in your possession.” He thrust his hand further towards me. “Please.” I
could see his polite request was forced but nonetheless it was there.

I had nothing to lose. His fingers curled around my own
when I slipped my tiny hand into his large one. The heat of his grasp when he
curled his fingers around mine caused a hard shudder.

Master didn’t look at me as he pulled me through the house.
It was night time, the darkness outside the windows providing no light in the
dimly lit corridors. The eerie silence enveloped us as my eyes roamed the
scenery on my journey. There were many paintings hung from the walls, but no
personal ones, no family portraits or photographs that would give me any clue
to who Master was. Small sconces decorated the wallpaper providing sufficient
light to illuminate our passage. Occasional ornaments, lamps and vases full of
flowers provided a reprieve against the harsh deep red colour of the décor. But
nothing was personal; none of it was a
home
.

He pushed a door and our excursion ended in a huge rustic
kitchen. It was square in shape but the many orderly cabinets and cupboards
gave it a soft hexagonal appearance. It was hard to explain but the way it had
been designed to soften the hard edges and strict contours made it finally feel
like a home. The deep smell of many different aromas reminded me of my own
childhood; herbs and spices still lingered in the atmosphere, traces of jams
and sugars tickled my nostrils as remnants of the evening’s dinner were exposed
in the yeasty scent only slightly eclipsing the faint smell of garlic.

“I like this room.” It slipped from my mouth easily while
a smile ghosted my lips when cosiness surrounded me.

Master didn’t acknowledge my words, he just pulled me
across the cool tile floor into a door at the far end. We carried on down some
steep stone steps, the air chilling and dampness rising considerably the
further we descended.

My mouth fell open when my eyes took in row after row of
dusty bottles. They were arranged methodically around the room, each bowed
shelf groaning under the weight of coloured glass and vintage wine.

He pulled me through endless lines of different wine
until he briskly halted and turned into another room. It was small, maybe six
foot square with an incredibly low ceiling and brick walls. I gawped at the
endless varieties of whisky. There were hundreds of various shaped bottles,
each their own distinct colour and style.

Master reached up high and pulled a dusty bottle from the
very top shelf. He dropped my hand and swept off the dust, faintly blowing at
the label to make sure he was holding the precise one he wanted. He remained
silent as he gave himself a nod then grabbed my hand again and proceeded to
pull me back through the house, retracing our steps, but instead of climbing
the stairs to the upper level of the house, he guided me into a huge room.

It was a lounge but the sheer size of it was
overwhelming. The furniture and décor was dark, blacks and greys covering the
walls whilst numerous smoked glass fixtures did nothing to break the deep slate
shade of the four couches positioned on each wall.

“Wow,” I breathed out. “I guess you like gloomy then.”

“You’ll soon find out there’s nothing bright about this
room, lamb.” I frowned at his cryptic reply. I had long since given up trying
to figure out his riddled conversation.

He dropped my hand and tilted his chin towards one of the
sofas, ordering me to sit before he stalked harshly across the room. He
snatched up two crystal tumblers then returned to me. Staring at the bottle in
his hand, he settled beside me then unscrewed the lid.

He brought his nose to rest against the top and inhaled
deeply. His eyes closed, his eyelids slowly veiling his delicious muddy gaze as
a sigh rattled through him, his senses shivering in ecstasy. I chose to ignore
the pulse between my legs as I observed my Master’s eyes roll in delight. It
was evidently a favourite brand of his.

He frowned and grumbled something under his breath when
he observed me sitting precariously on the edge of the couch, both of my palms
tucked securely between my thighs, my back ramrod straight and my eyes flicking
over every dark corner of the room. “For Christ’s sake, Mae, nothing is going
to jump out and devour you.”

I flicked my eyes his way. My brow quirked, in return
granting me a lift of one of his own. “For pity’s sake, drink,” he mumbled as
he shoved the half full glass of liquor in my hand.

My lips twitched at his frustration. He was a stern,
controlled man but my attitude flicked something inside him every time. I could
rile him so easily. A small chuckle came from my lips.

He settled back against the cushions and eyed me with
suspicion. “Care to share?”

I took a gulp of my own sour whisky. The burn in my
throat felt good and I shivered when it flowed into my tummy and heated the
chill. “Nothing, really. It just stuns me how much I affect you.”

His eyes narrowed into tiny slits. “Your meaning?”

I rested back, imitating his pose as I studied him. He
really was spectacular but his handsome features were ruined by his cruel character,
his deep rich bronze skin marred by the blackness inside him, and the cold
light behind his eyes destroyed his soft gaze. “I can always guarantee that
whatever I say or do upsets you. Yet, you still find me humorous and quirky.”
His eyes widened at my perception. “You desire me, yet hate yourself and deny
yourself for that.”

“What the…”

I held up a hand. Taking the bull by the horns I
continued before he could stop me. “I intrigue you. You can’t understand me and
that aggravates you, infuriates you even. Whatever or however you try, you know
deep down that you will never own me. You will never control me and I will
never surrender to your darkness.”

“I think you may have underestimated me, Mae.”

I shrugged nonchalantly. “Maybe, but what are a few
beatings, Master? Your fists will never reach my mind, your harsh cruelty will
never brush against my soul. You hate me for that, but you also admire me for
it.”

He looked furious, my brazenness burning something inside
him. Because he knew it was true.

I took another long swallow of my drink. His chest
heaved, the cotton of his shirt lifting as he pierced me with the sharpness of
his stare. I shrugged again; I had nothing to lose anymore. Although I knew he
could rain pain on my body, my frame was fragile enough to snap under it,
ending this debilitating wait for death. My mind was secure enough. Fuck his
mind games and his attempts to take my sanity. It would never belong to him,
and I would never let go of it for him. I was me. I was Mae fucking Swift,
daughter of Madeline Swift and Graham Swift, and sister of the strongest
fucking heart that had ever graced this God damned diseased planet.

“I won’t lie to you, Master. I’m sure you wouldn’t want
that. On the other hand I won’t give you the truths of my life either, nor will
you ever be granted my secrets.” I held his gaze and smirked. “You want to kill
me right now. Please do, nothing would bring me greater delight. I no longer
want to be here. That is where you made your first mistake with me.” I leaned
towards him, the alcohol stripping my anxiety, making me forthright and
truthful. “You can’t kill someone who is already dead inside.”

He exhaled then took a long pull of his drink, his eyes
still on mine over the rim of his glass. He moved the glass from his mouth, a
twist of his lips on show before he leaned towards the small table before us
and gently placed it down.

“You got all that, Mae?”

My stomach shifted as I watched the darkness snake across
his deep brown eyes, the tell-tale sign of his cruelty hanging on the very edge
of his control.

He nodded slowly and pursed his lips. “I never realised
just how perceptive you really are. However, there was one thing you got
wrong.”

I stared at him. I strived to keep my fear buried, he fed
on it, thrived on it and I refused to let him have it.

He slid across the sofa until his thigh pushed against my
own, virtually squashing my tiny frame between his large one and the arm of the
couch. “The part where you said that I desire you, yet deny myself.”

I inched back, the groove of my spine crushing against
the wood under the plush fabric. My heart sped up, shifting my pulse into panic
mode. Why couldn’t I ever shut the hell up? Why the hell had I been made this
way, uncontrollable and unruly?

His stare was smouldering, burning a route straight from
my eyes into my lower belly.

“Don’t!” I snapped. He knew what he was doing, twisting
my thoughts with lust, structuring arousal from my fear. “I won’t let you.”

He barked out a laugh as he took a strand of my hair
between his fingers. I jerked back as I attempted to remove myself from danger.
However his contact was delicate, the tips of his fingers smoothing my hair
between them. He slid his fingers down, gently brushing my scar and along my
neck until the full width of his hand spread over my throat.

I gasped and stiffened beneath him, my heart pounding in
my ears. Maybe I had underestimated him. He scared me intensely, but I would
never let him see that.

His eyes darkened to slate, the intensity of his wrath as
potent as his grip on my neck, his fingers slowly blocking the tight tunnel of
my lifeline. “I will break you, Mae,” he hissed in my ear, his hot breath
torture against my cold, damp skin. “I will possess you so entirely that you
will ask for permission to fucking breathe.”

He stared at me as I stared back, both of us unwilling to
back down, both as strong as each other. Courage and determination came from
nowhere as my gut bubbled angrily and my mind blocked him, refusing his request
for surrender.

“Never,” I whispered through the strength of his hold. “I
will never be your possession. And I can promise that whatever you do, you will
never succeed in breaking me. Only God can break me now and that decision is in
his hands.”

He held my gaze but his anger was suddenly overwritten by
something else and he pulled back, dropping his tight grip on my neck before he
picked up his glass and refilled it.

I nodded when he held up the bottle to me in question.
“So, Mae Swift,” he started as though the previous conversation had been
nothing but general gossip, “tell me, what happened to your parents?” He
noticed my flinch and looked at me curiously. “Their death still saddens you?”