Page 33 of The Butterfly Killer

Clomp. Clomp. Clomp.

And then he stopped.

Marcus couldn’t fucking focus. He couldn’t tell if the man had gotten closer or if he was just walking back and forth to make Marcus more antsy. If that was what he was trying to do, then he was doing a good damn job of it. Marcus loathed to even feel like he was about to piss his pants. He chalked it up to having a full bladder and for being knocked out for however long he was.

Panic swelled inside when it dawned on him that he didn’t know where he was and how long he’d been kept here. He vaguely remembered being shoved into a car. The man could have driven for hours, taking him over state lines, and that wouldn’t bode well for the search party that might or might not be after him.

He cursed himself for being such an idiot and going to his sister’s house. This was what this man had wanted. He’d wanted Marcus and now he had him.

Marcus almost gagged on his own fear, but still forced himself to slowly turn his head toward the man. His head gave little jerks as he fought with himself, trying to look away and look at the same time. His body was still fully in flight mode, but he and his mind were slowly being doused in fiery anger. He already knew his temper was going to get him in a lot of trouble.

He couldn’t promise himself he’d be smart about his next decision.

His fearful eyes adjusted, his vision becoming clear as he forced the blurriness away. The man grabbed the edge of the curtain, a patchwork of fabric precisely sewn together though it looked to be by hand. The metal rings dragged against the metal shower rod drilled into the walls on either side of the small room. Marcus clenched his teeth at the metal on metal sound.

Behind the curtain was a long desk crudely made from an old kitchen counter and beams of wood for the legs. It looked sturdyenough. There were piles of fabric, bottles of chemicals, wooden pieces, and an array of other things littering the desk. They were piled in groups so they were at least a little organized.

Above the desk and on the wall were shelves and racks. Bottles and jars of different sizes were lined up neatly, spaced out at the same width.

Marcus made a keening noise in the back of his throat as he took in what was in the jars and bottles.

Rats, lizards, kittens…there were also bugs, spiders, and other things he couldn’t make out. The animals were fully intact, their fur and flesh still on, were encased in liquid—to preserve them he assumed. The bugs and other things were lumped together, piles of each thing like ladybugs and wasps, in smaller jars.

And hanging on the walls were shadow boxes housing at least over a hundred different species of butterfly.

Marcus’s eyes didn’t know where to look. He was overwhelmed by all the colors and all the information he was taking in. The smell of formaldehyde made a lot more sense.

The man grabbed the back of the wooden chair pushed into the desk and pulled it out. He slowly sat in it, no longer paying attention to Marcus at all.

Marcus was both unnerved by the brush off and also relieved. He couldn’t relax though. His muscles twitched with how tense he was, but he couldn’t get himself to even unclench his fists that ached from the rope digging into his wrists.

The man picked up the last thing he’d presumably been working on. He picked up a small bone from a tray with a pair of tweezer’s and brushed on a thin layer of glue. He pressed the bone into place against the already put together skeleton in front of him.

Marcus held his breath as he watched the man methodically work. The light hanging from the ceiling was bright enough to burn his retinas, but he didn’t dare to look away.

He waited for the man to get back up and do something. The anticipation made his chest ache and his stomach twisted to the point he thought he was going to throw up. His hands had gone completely numb now. Still, he couldn’t get his fists to unclench. He hadn’t blinked for the longest time and his eyes were dry. They stung when he finally forced himself to blink so he didn’t permanently damage his eyes.

The chair creaked as the man leaned back. He looked down at his project, hands hovering as if to immediately fix a problem when he saw it. He straightened a piece of bone until it was to his liking.

He slowly sat down the tweezer’s.

Marcus hadn’t noticed his shoulders had relaxed some. But he definitely noticed when they locked up again.

The man stood. He reached up to the bright light and switched it up.

Marcus started to struggle again when the man turned around. Marcus’s heart skipped when he met the man’s grey soulless eyes. He wasn’t even really a man. He was a phantom, a ghost, merely lost in this world.

He didn’t look at all like what Marcus thought he would. He’d imagined someone more rugged, with a permanent smirk on their face, and someone thatlookedlike they’d killed.

This man didn’t fit that false imagery Marcus had made up in his head. He looked too…too much like an angel.

Marcus kicked his feet and yanked his hands against the rope. He screamed against the cloth, thrashing to the point his joints ached alongside his hands.

The man’s eyes narrowed, a darkness appearing in them that overshadowed the gray. His mouth turned down into a deep frown.

“Stop,” he said, moving toward Marcus to make him if he didn’t listen.

Marcus only paused out of shock for a second before he went back to trying to escape. The man’s voice had been fried, bordering a croak, as if he wasn’t used to speaking.

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