Page 46 of The Butterfly Killer

Marcus was sluggish as he tried to move away from Roman.

"Na-ah. Stay exactly where you are." Roman grabbed him by his good ankle and pulled him down.

He grabbed the broken leg. "1...2..."

He snapped the bone before he got to three. Marcus screamed and then clamped his mouth shut, biting his tongue. He writhed in the bed as he grabbed the pillow and squeezed it to his chest. The shot had numbed the spot but not completely. He screamed again as Roman gently sat his leg down.

"You fucking bitch!"

"It hurts worse because it healed wrong. Be thankful I gave you something for it."

Marcus cursed Roman in his head. He slammed his fists into the mattress as he cried about the pain. He hid his face in the pillow so Roman couldn't see him. He just knew the sick fuck would like to see that. He was probably getting off on him screaming in pain right now.

Marcus laid there, sniffling but also trying to be quiet about it. He heard Roman leave to his side of the room and sit at his desk. The sounds of him working eased Marcus in some insensible way. The pain in his leg grew further away as the shot grew stronger the longer it was in his system.

Roman definitely could have waited. The man's impatience made Marcus more sure Roman had wanted him to feel some pain.

"Freak," Marcus grumbled into the pillow.

Roman stopped. Marcus stilled as he wondered if the man had heard him and was going to come do something about it.

Except Roman didn't do anything besides go back to his work. He was quiet besides the little rustles Marcus heard. He breathed into the pillow wishing he had the guts and strength to smother himself.

When it became too hard to breathe and he felt on the brink of passing out, he lifted his head. His face was swollen from crying and his cheeks were creased from pressing them into the rough fabric of the pillowcase.

He watched Roman's silhouette from the other side of the curtain. He went from angry to curious as the long minutes passed through the silence. He sagged into the flimsy mattress, his whole body taken over by a good numbness. He could see himself getting addicted to this.

Not being here but this feel-good silence rolling over him. He was so numb to everything that for once in his life he didn't feel the need to do anything at all. The melancholy wasn't horrible as he thought it would be. Instead, he wished it would end.

Though, that wish was one he'd regret later on. No matter how good the drug made him, he didn't want to be stuck here with a mad man.

As he watched Roman lean over to work, Marcus imagined what he was doing. He was working with something small so it was probably another insect. The butterflies lining the walls seemed to be his favorite—which wasn't at all surprising—so he might have been working on one of them.

Marcus imagined Roman moving the wings of the butterfly to the perfect position, manipulating the poor thing until itshowed its most beautiful side. Or what Roman deemed to be the most beautiful.

It was both sick and interesting that Roman wanted to collect something he found beautiful. The insects and other animals he collected were nothing more than trophies. They were art for his own pleasure, not caring about the creatures at all. He wanted them dead because that was the only way he could preserve their beauty.

Marcus couldn't go back to sleep. From all the laying around he was doing, he was going to go insane. He couldn't do anything but stare at the ceiling, stare at the wall, or stare at the curtain. The third option was the most interesting even if he couldn't see exactly what Roman was doing.

It was just as interesting to guess what Roman was doing rather than to see it.

And it was probably better for his stomach. When the smell of formaldehyde became stronger or Roman filled jars with alcohol, Marcus rather not liked to image what he was doing. He already knew it was a dead animal.

The worse was when Roman left outside and brought back bags of lumps.

So that was how he was storing the corpses.

Roman had made a show of getting dress and going outside. While it wasn't snowing as heavily as it was before, it was still deep enough that Marcus didn't want to chance going out there. The image of the wide expanse of white had made his stomach drop. His anxiety at that picture had been enough for him to know he wasn't getting out of here without some high-chance he'd die out there.

When Roman came back, he placed the black trash bags behind the curtain and then removed his bulky clothing. His face was flushed red by the biting cold. Marcus tried to ignore how pretty he looked—it wasn't like he'd intentionally thought about it or noticed it. Anyone who saw Roman would immediately say he looked like the angels people loved to paint.

Right now, Marcus was forced to watch Roman behind the curtain. He'd spared Marcus a look before he disappeared behind there again but that was it.

Marcus couldn't stand to stare anymore. He clenched his jaw as he forced himself to get up from the bed. He pulled himself upright by using the bed as something sturdy when he heard the curtain part and felt Roman behind him.

"Lay back down."

Marcus waited. When Roman didn't do anything, he turned around with a glare.

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