Chasing Butterflies (2 page)

Jasmine turns to her friends and then bursts out laughing. “Did you hear her?” she asks them, cocking her thumb over her shoulder toward me.

They all laugh and cackle like a group of witches, and as the horrible sound cocoons around me, I realise I’ve heard enough. Tears are threatening in my eyes, so I quickly spin around on my heels and run from them so they can’t see.

“Go on,” she calls out to me, “run away, Yara. Go back to your grandmother and cry like the baby you still are.”

Yara

I sprint all the way home with the intention of running straight to my bedroom to cry away my frustrations.

I’m not good at dealing with anger. When I’m angry, I want to break things. I want to hurt people too. But I know I can’t do that—I promised I’d
never
do that. And I never break my promises.

When I crash through the back door, I freeze. Granny is lying on the floor, groaning and murmuring. “Granny,” I say as my anger instantly evaporates. “What happened?” I drop to my knees and lean over her to try and look at her face.

She brings her arm up and bats me away with it. “Leave me alone, you devil child.”

I shake my head at her. “I can’t leave you when you’re sick.”

“I’m not sick,” she grumbles, pushing her fingers through her short grey hair. “I’m just having a rest.”

My eyes trail down her body, noticing her damp skirt. “But you’ve wet yourself.”

“Yara!” she bellows. “Leave me alone. Right now. Go and play outside or something.”

“I’m not ten anymore, Granny. You can’t just send me away to play in the garden.”

“Ha, don’t try to pretend like you don’t talk to yourself and whatever other imaginary friends you think you have. I hear you talking to them everyday.”

I scowl at her. “I’m just trying to help, Granny. Please just let me.”

“I don’t need your damn help, Yara. Don’t you see? Don’t you see that you’re to blame for all of this? This fucked-up shit…it’s because of you!”

Granny is always swearing, so that doesn’t shock me. What I am shocked about is that she just blamed
me
that she ended up on the floor. I wasn’t even here. I wasn’t anywhere near the house.
Maybe she’s just forgotten. Or maybe she banged her head..
.

“I’m going to help you,” I tell her, tucking my arm under neck.

“NO!” she shouts, pushing me with her hand until I stumble away from her.

I slip on the cream-tile floor and then stand upright. “I-I was just trying to help,” I stammer. “Why won’t you let me?”

“Because I don’t need any help, especially not from you!”

I narrow my eyes at her and cross my arms over my chest. If she’s yelling at me, then she can’t be
that
sick. “I’m all you’ve got,” I remind her. “No one else will help you because the whole village hates you just as much as they hate me.”

She cackles. “That’s not true. They might dislike me, but it’s
because
of you. You’re cursed and you’ve cursed this whole bloody family. You’ve ruined my life because of what you did to me, and you’ll rot in hell for it. Mark my words, Yara.”

A sob gets stuck in my throat because I know exactly what she’s talking about. “It wasn’t my fault,” I whisper.

Her cold, pale green eyes snap up to mine. A snarl makes her lips curl and then she huffs and lets her head fall back to the floor. “Just help me up and then leave me be. I don’t want to see you for the rest of the night. Do you understand?”

I take a step toward her and nod. “I understand, Granny.”

Gabriel

I bolt upright in bed, scrambling for my phone so I can check the time. I squint against the bright light and then flop back down onto my pillow when I see that it’s only midnight.

I’m sweating and breathing hard as I attempt to drag as much air into my lungs as I can. I’ve been having the same nightmare since I came back home two months ago, and I don’t know how to deal it. The way I feel in my dreams is nothing like how I felt in reality, and it’s torturing me to the point that I’ve started to convince myself that the nightmares must have a meaning.

I throw the covers off and walk across my room until I get to the window. Pushing it open to let the almost non-existent breeze in, I notice something white near the creek. I narrow my eyes, as if this will somehow increase my ability to see in the dark, and see that the white thing is hanging off the tree that sits right at the end of Yara’s garden.

With the window now open, I can hear whatever it is flapping, and if I can hear it, it’ll stop me from sleeping. I really don’t need any help with my sporadic insomnia.

Sighing, I pull on my shorts and t-shirt. Then I climb out of my window, dropping down onto the flat roof of the kitchen extension below my room, and crawl to the edge. Taking a deep breath, I jump down onto the dew-covered lawn, wincing as my ankles take the impact, and stride across the grass towards the noise.

When I realise that the white thing is actually Yara Hendricks, I freeze, hardly daring to breath.

She’s hanging upside down from a thick branch of a tree, her arms dangling limply from her body. Her white nightie has fallen down and dropped over her head, giving me a clear view of her round breasts, her flat stomach and some old-fashioned, frilly white knickers. I can just about make out her snowy-white hair that sticks out from beneath her nightie as she swings a couple of inches above the tips of the long grass.

I suddenly realise as I stare at her that she does look like an Angel’s Trumpet, just like my Mum used to say. During my college course I learned about the Angel’s Trumpet and how it’s toxic and can be deadly if touched. I also learned that there’s always someone stupid who touches what they know they shouldn’t. Not sure why they do it, but even idiots have reasons.

I’m that person right now. The person who’s about to do something that they know they shouldn’t. The idiot.

“Yara,” I whisper.

Nothing.

“Yara,” I say again, letting my voice carry in the warm breeze. When she still doesn’t acknowledge that she’s heard me, I sigh and walk towards her until my feet are directly underneath her head. I fix my eyes firmly on the ground so I don’t look at her breasts.

My head is screaming at me to turn around, to ignore her and forget all about the stories I heard when I was younger. But as I stare at the ends of her hair that brush against the grass, I realise that this is why I’ve walked over here and spoken to her for the first time in my life.

I want her to curse me like everyone used to believe. I want to feel something…good, bad, whatever.

“Yara,” I snap, “you need to come down. All the blood’s probably rushed to your head by now. And you need to cover yourself up.”

I close my eyes for a second and wonder if I should just walk away. But then I reopen them and I see her fingers twitch. Now I know she’s heard me I take a deep breath and slowly start to lift up her nightie so I can see her face.

As I’m pulling the thin fabric, I can’t help but think about the scene in Spiderman when Mary Jane slowly rolls down Peter Parker’s mask until she sees his lips. And then all of a sudden, I see Yara’s lips. My eyes devour them, noticing how plump and soft they look…how kissable.

I shake my head to try and clear my thoughts.
What the fuck is wrong with me?

Yara doesn’t flinch as I continue pulling her nightie until her breasts are completely covered. When I look down, I notice a book in her hands, and then she looks up at me. I’m frozen to the spot by her pale, crystal-blue eyes that gaze up at me curiously.

We stare at each other for what can only be seconds, but it feels like minutes…hours even. I hold my breath, waiting for her to acknowledge me in someway, but she doesn’t.

I take a deep breath and continue staring at her, noticing that she’s fairy-like, with cute little ears and high, defined cheekbones. Her skin is clear and as pale as the moon, and she has eyes that look like pale sapphires.

She’s not ordinary pretty, she’s extraordinarily pretty…beautiful, even.

And instead of cursing me like people always told me she would, she hypnotises me into allowing myself to imagine my lips on hers, my hands in her hair and her body pressed against mine.

“Have you come to play a trick on me?” she asks, interrupting my thoughts.

I clear my throat and shake my head quickly to refocus my attention. “No. Do people do that to you?”

“Yes.”

Why?
“That’s horrible. Who does that?”

“Who are
you?”

I swallow and then take a step back from her without letting go of her nightie. “I’m Gabriel.”

She raises an eyebrow at me. “Gabriel? Like the archangel?”

I nod and watch as she slowly licks her lips, making them glisten in the moonlight. “If you like.”

“Have you come to bring me a message from God, Gabriel?”

I laugh. “Like I haven’t heard that one before.”

She frowns as if she doesn’t understand me. “Well, what do you want if you don’t have a message for me?”

“Nothing. I just came to see what you were doing.” I turn my head and nod towards my house in the distance. “I saw you from my window.”

“You live there?” she asks, looking over my shoulder.

I nod.

“And you lived there when you were a boy?”

“Yes,” I whisper.

Her eyes flick back to mine. “You look different now, but I remember you watching me when I was younger.”

It’s true, I did
. “I came because I saw something hanging from the tree,” I say to try and explain my sudden appearance, “and I wondered what it was.”

“Well,” she says with a sigh, pulling her book back in front of her face, “now you know it was just me, and since I’m a nobody, you can go back to bed. Goodnight, Gabriel.”

“I’ll rephrase,” I tell her quickly. “I was coming to see why you were doing what you’re doing.”

Yara laughs and lets the book drop to the ground with a thump. When I look back up, her hands hook over the branch, forcing my fingers to break free from her nightgown. She flips over backward until she lets go, landing perfectly right in front of me. She turns around to face me, and it’s only then that I realise how short she is. Her head doesn’t even reach my shoulder.

Our eyes connect, and for the briefest of seconds, I forget she’s crazy, cursed Yara. Instead, I just see a beautiful girl with eyes full of uncertainty and innocence. And I want to do what all people do when they see someone beautiful; I want to be closer to her. I want to touch her. To smell her. To revel in her perfectness.

“Well, if you’re saying that you came here to try and understand
me,
you’ll have to get in the back of the queue.”

I snap out of my trance and frown at her. “What?”

“I’ve got a medicine cabinet full of a pills, a list of baffled doctors as long as my arm, and two brain scans. And they still don’t know why I am the way I am.”

A cabinet full of pills?
“Why?”

“Because there’s something wrong with me,” she says, sounding annoyed. “You must know that.”

I do know that, but I don’t want you to know that I know.
“Being different isn’t wrong,” I say quickly, feeling like I need to defend her. “You seem okay to me.”

She brushes her hands down her thighs, smoothing her nightie out, and then looks up at me. She looks afraid, but I don’t know why. “If it’s all the same to you, I’ll just keep listening to the professionals.”

“Yeah,” I say through a laugh, “because it sounds like they’ve been doing such a great job.”
Why did I just say that? I don’t even know her
. “I’m sorry, I’m—”

“I’m crazy,” she interrupts.

I frown and shake my head. “No, you’re not.”

“I am. And don’t stare at me, you might catch it.”

I feel like she’s testing me, pushing and prodding until I give in. But I don’t, because Yara has surprised me, and worse, she’s intrigued me. “One man’s crazy is another man’s sane,” I tell her calmly without breaking eye contact.

She narrows her eyes and puts her hand on her hip. “What do you mean?”

I shrug, not quite knowing if I actually mean anything that I’m saying.
What is she doing to me? Maybe she has really cursed me.

“What do you mean, Gabriel?” she repeats.

But the way she says my name
… I clear my throat again. “Define crazy, Yara.”

She frowns at me, looking completely confused. “What?”

“Define it,” I say. “Define what makes someone crazy.”

“I don’t have to define it,” she tells me sadly. “It’s defined by other people. And it’s those people that everyone listens to.”

Even though I can hear my own voice, and I can feel the thoughts slithering through my head, I can’t believe I’m actually having this conversation with her.
Maybe I’m sleepwalking?
“I read something once,” I tell her. “What do you think would happen if they put five perfectly sane people into a mental institute?”

“I don’t know.” She shrugs. “I guess maybe they’d be annoyed, maybe even angry, and the more they tried to prove that they were normal, the crazier they’d look.”

“Exactly,” I say, nodding at her. “So prove you’re mad.”