Page 10 of The Butterfly Killer

He fell asleep to that face. It morphed into his nightmares and instead of being in his small studio apartment, he was back in their small two bedroom house with no AC, standing over his mom’s body.

It was a hot summer’s day. He’d been over at the neighbor’s house mowing their lawn for a measly five dollars—anything to earn extra money to help with the rent even though he had a full-time job during the weekdays.

The screen door swung back and forth with a gush of wind. Which seemed off because it had been hot and muggy the whole day without the reprieve of a breeze. But now it seemed like it was flinging the door right off the hinges.

His movements were sluggish. He tried to kneel at her sides, but his feet were moving him away from her. He cried out but his voice was muffled—he wanted to be at her side. He wanted to make sure she wasn’t still alive and suffering in her last moments.

She’s already gone.His thoughts reasoned with him. Somewhere in the back of his mind he knew that, long before he even walked through the door. His thoughts were playing tricks on him.

His feet carried him away from her body, her chest ripped open and her guts laying out beside her—his first kill. Or the first time he found what made him feel that buzz. The first time he realized he needed to keep recreating this moment over and over until that need was sated. But he and Marcus knew that craving would never be fulfilled.

Marcus stepped toward the backdoor. He moved to grab the swinging screen door. The handle slipped out of his hand. The hinges broke. Or they were already broken.

His brows furrowed. That’s right. The hinges were broken. They used to have to wrap a wire around the handle and a nail in the wall to keep it closed.

He stepped out onto the porch. But as his foot hit the concrete, he was pulled back to the start of the scene. He was standing over his mom’s body. He was horrified. Or he had been. He’d seen this image so many times in his nightmares he was almost used to it.

He looked over her. The back door swung again in the wind. The squeaking annoyed him. He tried to stomp over to the door, but something was holding him back.

Stop!He screamed in his head, finally looking up at the door.

A shadow. It appeared in the sunlight on the kitchen floor each time the door swung open. Everything was frozen except the door. And when Marcus could move again, the moment unfreezing, the shadow was gone.

He’d been here. Marcus had interrupted him.

The scene changed. Marcus was standing in front of Miss Calloway’s home. The door was ajar. That wasn’t how it happened. The door was shut and that woman had been crying on the stoop.

He pushed the door open. The sunlight streamed through the large living room windows and flowed into the small entryway.His boots made thudding noises on the floor as he walked into the living room—the thuds turning to softened thumps.

She was laying on the ground. And the killer was there. He was cutting her open.

His movements were precise. He took his time with her because he knew he had time to spare. The house was clean. He’d been here awhile before he set out to do his main task. He wanted to make this special. Something was special about this kill.

Marcus stepped closer. The man—he had no face—looked up at him. Though he had no face, his eyes still met Marcus’s.

“I want to show you how I do it,” the man said.

Marcus didn’t feel sick like he usually did. He merely nodded and crouched on the opposite side of the woman, across from the man.

“I sedate her,” the man murmured. He waved his hand over the woman’s face. She didn’t flinch, but her eyes darted between the two of them.

She was alive.

Marcus felt nothing. It was like all the feeling he had had been sucked out of him the first time he saw her corpse. Much like his memories of his mom’s desecrated body.

“She’s doing very well.” The man’s voice was soft. It was muffled, but Marcus could hear it loud and clear.

The man pulled out a knife. It was clean and sharp. It had to be if he wanted to get the precise cuts he wanted. He moved the blade to her skin.

“I take my time.”

The woman couldn’t scream—not with her mouth anyway. She screamed with her eyes. The man held her gaze even as he cut through her flesh.

“I don’t want to look away but I have to.”

The man focused on his cuts. Blood was pouring from her chest.

“There’s a mat under her. I don’t want to make a mess.”

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