Page 44 of The Butterfly Killer

Marcus slammed his head forward to try and head butt the figure, but they pulled back in time to evade the attack. Marcus screamed once more, but then went still when his stomach twisted with sickness.

He groaned. "I'm going?—"

The figure quickly rolled Marcus onto his side. A bucket that smelled of rust was shoved under his mouth. He heaved and heaved until he threw up the contents of his stomach. He puked again until there was nothing left except stomach acid. He spat that out.

The figure who he now recognized as Roman rubbed gentle circles into his back.

He groaned again as another wave of sickness went through his shaky body. Roman continued to rub his back as he sat the bucket on the ground.

"Sit back," Roman ordered.

Marcus followed the direction, the fight in him snuffed once more. He was weakened in his limbs and his mind. He was already on the edge of sleep.

Roman got up to leave. Marcus grabbed his arm weakly. He wasn't strong enough to keep him by his side, but Roman stopped anyway.

"Don't leave me," Marcus begged with a cracked voice. The darkness had engulfed him completely. He couldn't make out anything in the dark and it frightened him more than the man standing in front of him.

Everything hurt. He felt the sickness all in him. He didn't want to believe he was on the edge of death. He didn't want to believe it was possible when he felt so young—when hewasso young.

The only way he imagined himself dying was by his own hands. He never even imagined the Butterfly Killer would find him or that a copycat would. It had always been his own grief that haunted him more than the evil bastards walking amongst him.

Roman didn't pull away like Marcus thought he would. He stayed.

Marcus jolted when Roman brushed back his hair with gentle fingers.

"The toughest of men always beg." Roman's gentle touch turned from being nice to annoying.

Still, Marcus didn't pull away. He let the man touch him like he was a hurt stray animal he was saving more for the good-samaritan points rather than wanting to do it out of the goodness of his heart.

"I thought you would be different. A challenge," Roman continued. He ran his fingers through Marcus's damp hair as he spoke. "It doesn't matter what I think though. As long as you get his attention, you'll have served your purpose."

Marcus stared up at his savior and his abuser with wet eyes. The tears ran down his hot cheeks as he tried to think deeply about what Roman was saying. He didn't have the energy to decipher it all.

"Sleep, butterfly."

Roman forced Marcus's eyes closed with two spread fingers.

13

Marcus jolted awake.He felt like he'd been shoved through the wringer. Further more, his back was sore. He couldn't move without it feeling like he was tearing his muscles. He groaned as he sat back when he realized he didn't have the strength to sit up.

His blurry vision came into focus. Someone was sitting at his side. For a split second, he thought it was Patrice. Except when he looked at the man sitting at his side, it looked nothing like the medical examiner.

All that had happened before came rushing back to him. He didn't know how he'd forgotten. Crazily enough, he almost didn't believe it. It all felt like a bad nightmare. And for a second, he almost believed his mind was playing tricks on him. Perhaps his sickness was muddying his mind and making him imagine things.

"You had a nightmare."

Marcus coughed. A cup of water was held in front of his mouth. He drank it without a fuss.

"You're a nightmare."

That got him a snort from Roman.

"Good one. You're so witty."

Marcus shook his head as the glass was offered to him again. Roman sat it on the box.

"I'd like to say you're getting better."

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