Page 34 of The Butterfly Killer

He screamed as much as could. His head was pounding from how hard he was whipping his head back and forth, but though his body was in intense pain, he couldn’t get himself to calm down. He needed to get out of here. He knew what was coming next.

Flashes of the murder victims, the flayed flesh, and the artful way this man had positioned their corpses as if that was all they were good for appeared in Marcus’s memory. The panic had bled and morphed into intense terror that made his skin clammy and his stomach twist in a sickness that felt like it would never leave him be.

The bed shook from the force as which he used. Liquid ran down his arms, trailing down to his elbows. His vision went fuzzy at the corners, black spots disappearing and reappearing.

“I said stop!” The man jumped onto the bed, jostling the thin mattress. The metal bed frame squeaked under their combined weight. The man slammed his hands down on Marcus’s arms and pinned them down beside his head.

Marcus continued to kick his free legs. He wiggled like a worm, bucking his hips up at the man to throw him off. He wasn’t strong enough and the awkward position just made his neck and back strain. The man was heavy, resting his full weight on Marcus’s chest, pinning him even more than he already was to the bed.

He let out a sob when he realized he truly was dead this time. He’d escaped death by chance, but he’d ran into the hands of another killer. His bad luck was impeccable.

He stilled. His thoughts were running a millions miles per second. There were flashes of his sad life, memories he’d buried down deep to smother the pain of his mother’s death. He couldn’t fight them off now when he could feel his time coming to an end.

Except, when he met the man’s eyes, the eyes of the person who was going to kill him, all fear dissipated. It was replaced with a feeling so strong his numb body parts came alive again. His ears rang and his mouth went dry. The feeling was too great to put a name to it—an emotion that transited higher than any sort of wrath he’d had in his life.

He held on tight to that burning feeling. His lips pulled back into a snarl.

He slammed his head as hard as he could into the man’s face.

The man let out a muffled scream, scrambling down the bed and away from Marcus. He covered his bloody face with his hands, letting out a small whimper that reminded Marcus of a puppy being stomped on.

For a second, Marcus felt sorry, but then he remembered this was psychopathic killer who currently had him tied to a bed. The only thing he should be feeling for the cowering man was rage and disgust.

Those forgotten emotions swelled inside him. He twisted his body. The rope on his left hand had come loose with his struggles, but he still had to strain to get it out. He looked up at his almost free hand and inwardly gasped when he saw blood.

It was covering his arm. He’d rubbed his skin so raw with the rope he’d taken off layers, opening a nasty wound that only now registered to his brain. He squeezed his hand through the ropeand then immediately went to work on his right hand which was just in bad shape as his left.

The numbness in his hands was gone, leaving sharp pain that had him hissing as he grappled at the side of the bed, trying to stand up.

The man shook his head—probably still reeling from the surprise attack. He squinted as if his vision had gone hazy for a moment. Marcus barely had any time to crawl out of the bed before the man grabbed him. He screamed around the rag still in his mouth as he was yanked down. He fell on top of the man. The frame of the bed snapped and the mattress sagged in the middle.

The man groaned as Marcus’s full weight fell on him. Marcus jabbed his elbow hard into the man’s ribs, relishing only for a second at the grunt the man made.

It was a struggle to get back up. His feet were jello. Sharp pain went up them and it was only then he remembered the other psychopath, Micheal, had done a number on him. His adrenaline ran high enough he could stomach the pain in his legs as he limped toward the door.

He pulled the rag out of his mouth at the same time his other hand grabbed the door handle. Relief flooded him as the door creaked open. The tears swelled up as fresh air hit his face.

But he frowned when he realized the air was extremely cold—the kind of cold that felt like shards of glass or needles piercing skin.

Another blinding light—shining, reflecting off the silky white surface that covered every inch of the ground before him. He gaped at what he saw.

Snow. So much snow it looked like the world had been consumed by it.

A hand grabbed the back of his shirt. The door slammed shut and the man bolted it shut from the inside. He pulled down a blanket Marcus had seen before so it covered the door. It washung by two nails, the fabric torn from where the nails had probably been there for a while.

Marcus stumbled back. “W-Where?—”

The man stood eerily with both hands on the door, crouched over and his head downward. Marcus held his breath as he watched the man slowly turn. The man’s wavy hair hung in his face, covering one eye. The eye that wasn’t covered glared, sending a dagger through Marcus’s heart.

A bead of blood slid down the cupid’s bow of his upper lip.

Marcus took a step back. The back of his legs hit the bed frame. He toppled over, scrambling back without looking away from the man. There were no words. He couldn’t even get himself to scream again. There was no point. He’d seen what was on the otherside of the door.

A blizzard. For miles. He wouldn’t survive out there for longer than an hour. How did he end up here? And why here?

The man crept closer. He stood at the end of the bed. He wiped away the blood, smearing it across his cheek. A rising fury swirled in his eyes, something manic that took Marcus’s breath away, but he still couldn’t look away.

“Where?” The man’s scratchy voice sent a shiver down Marcus’s spine. His chest heaved.

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