Page 37 of The Butterfly Killer

“Do you know who I am?” The words weren’t threatening. There was anger, yes, but he was almost hopeful for Marcus to say the right answer.

Marcus thought he knew.

He just barely found the strength to speak.

“You’re the Butterfly Killer.”

He didn’t know if calling the man a copycat killer would set him off. He didn’t believe the man was a ticking time-bomb, but his meticulous way of holding himself back couldn’t last forever. Like his inability to keep a mask on, he would fail to control the taste for murder he was afflicted with.

Marcus misjudged what the man wanted to hear. The man scoffed with a roll of his eyes. He leaned back in the chair and crossed his arms over his chest. He gave a disappointed shake of his head.

“You know my name. You know who I am.”

Marcus shook his head.

Roman’s expecting face turned angry and then just annoyed. He abruptly stood. He slammed his hands on the bed, jostling it.

“My name is Roman,” he said through clenched teeth.

Still, Marcus didn’t know who he was which pissed Roman off more.

Marcus took a sharp breath, pushing himself away from Roman. Roman quickly caged him in, one hand on either side of him. He lowered his face so there was no where for Marcus to look but at him.

So, he closed his eyes.

He felt Roman’s warm breath across his cheek. He jerked when he felt the man’s cheek graze across his.

“You’ll know who I am. You’ll remember, but for now, I have something to finish and you’re going to help me.”

Marcus feared whatever help Roman needed would be far worse than death itself.

11

Marcus watchedwith caution as Roman stirred a pot of stew on the small burner. The gas stove was barely a one-by-one size and compared to how tall Roman was, it looked even smaller. With one hand holding the wooden spoon, he used his free left hand to hold up a dog-eared book. The pages were badly torn and falling apart in some places. The cover barely held on. Marcus got only a glimpse of the cover as Roman had walked from his desk and around the bed to the kitchen. It looked to be a science fiction book of some sort, old, older than either of them by the looks of it.

Roman tapped the spoon on the edge of the pot and then set it aside by the sink. He didn’t mark his place in the book, merely tossing it onto the small counter without much care.

He pulled out two small bowls and two spoons. He filled them up and brought them over to the side of the bed. He sat in the chair he’d pulled up earlier.

Marcus had managed to sit up and against the headboard. He bundled up in the thin blankets. If he so much as moved he would either break out in a sweat or get a flash of cold through his body that would have his teeth chattering.

Marcus watched as Roman sat one bowl on the make-shift nightstand. The box teetered from the weight. Marcus contemplated whether he should grab the bowl or not when Roman held up a spoonful of soup from the bowl he was still holding to Marcus’s face.

Marcus leaned his head back. “I’m not hungry.”

It wasn’t entirely a lie. While his stomach was empty and aching for substance, the nauseas plaguing the rest of his body didn’t make him inclined to put anything in his mouth.

Roman’s eyes were blank as he simply stared back at Marcus. Then a sliver of amusement quirked over his lips. Another inside joke entirely lost on Marcus.

“Fine. Suit yourself.” Roman shoved the spoonful into his mouth.

The sound of Roman eating softly filled the room. The wind blew hard and beat against the small structure. There was a bead of fear in Marcus’s gut that the whole cabin would collapse in on itself. But Roman didn’t share his fear. He seemed entirely sure they were safe from the storm raging on outside.

If Marcus had the strength, he would have scoffed at the thought that he was “safe” here with this man. He stared at his lap instead. He twisted his fingers, picking at his cuticles, under the blanket. Roman had finished his bowl when he abruptly grabbed the blanket and yanked it off him.

He let out a surprised yelp and grappled from the safety net. Roman held it out of the way before tossing it onto the floor. He sat his empty bowl on the side table and then grabbed Marcus’s hands. Marcus tried to yank away, but Roman’s grip was like iron.

“Don’t pick at them,” he said in a dark tone. “You’ll get an infection.”

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