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“Cillian?”

“Yeah?”

“I mean this with all due respect, but ... what the hell is wrong with your boss?”

Instead of the chuckle I thought I’d get, Cillian narrows his eyes. “Be careful not to judge someone without having walked in their shoes, Miss Hart.”

I shrink, feeling like I’ve been reprimanded by my father. “One more question.”

“What?” He sighs.

“How long does Astor plan on keeping me here?”

This time, Cillian hesitates, avoiding eye contact.

Finally, he says, “About twenty-four more hours, Miss Hart.”

Thirty-One

Dear Butterfly,

I find myself consumed by death. Thinking of it, dreaming of it, fantasizing about it. Wanting it, craving it, needing it.

In a sense, I am already dead. Along with you, the light left from my life.

As I sit here at my desk, writing this letter, I find myself staring at my hands, studying them. They don’t look like mine, or the way I remember them before you. It’s as if they are someone else’s, operating independently of my body.

I feel the same about my feet. My arms, my legs.

Everything is dying around me, detaching from me. My soul is slowly disintegrating, limb by limb, leaving nothing but a body that serves no purpose. Lifeless skin and bones, veins, muscle, and fat. Just insignificant things, like rocks or twigs.

I read once, somewhere, that our bodies serve no other purpose than to be the vehicle for our life. That our soul is our essence, who we really are. Something we can’t see or touch but know is there. So, when the soul goes out of the body, it is rendered useless.

This is me.

Does your soul still love me? Wherever your soul is, do you still love me? Do you think of me?

Will I see you again? Somewhere up there?

Or is this it?

What a sickening thought.

My God, I miss you, my butterfly. Words cannot describe the pain I feel.

I can’t do this anymore. I don’t want to. I don’t want to live a life without you in it.

I love you. I love you. I love you.

My everything.

My whole entire life.

Astor

Thirty-Two

Sabine

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