The Butterfly

I try to keep my October posts all for my Halloween-palooza, however my brain was locked up and every time I tried to write any of the posts that I had outlined, they sounded like shit. The reason for this lockdown? It’s because my brain had been hijacked by what I’m now going to call an RLF, which stands for Rude Little Fuck. An RLF is a story that I don’t want to think about, don’t want to write about, and don’t have fucking time to write about, but it will just not go away until I write it. And the really irritating thing? It’s never a happy story about The Adventures of Happy Puppy Cuppy Cake and Cherry Merry Muffin, it’s always some downer shit that I could really do without having bouncing in my brain space. There’s nothing to be done for it though, so here it is, and y’know what? As soon as I wrote it, I was able to blast out a typically brilliant(?) and inane Kat post for later.


The Butterfly

I couldn’t figure out why my husband was so angry with me. We had been having so much fun at the comic convention, and I couldn’t understand what had happened. I had been admiring the work of an aspiring comic artist when I felt his fingers dig into the soft flesh of my upper arm and jerk me around. The pain radiated up to my shoulder but it was nothing compared to the terror I felt seeing the fury smoldering in my husband’s black eyes. I had been the recipient of this look many times over the years and yet it still startled me to see his face twisted into such a mask of utter contempt. I’d look at him and know that he hated me. My husband hated me.
“We are leaving,” he snarled at me.
I felt my head shrinking down, attempting to disappear into my shoulders. “But why? We…we didn’t even finish Artists Alley yet.”
Mark released my arm with a shove. “Fine! Finish!”
I didn’t move.
“Go!” he made a dismissive motion with his hand.
“You don’t want to come, too?” I asked meekly. “You always like to look at the sketches.”
He gave me a disgusted look. “No. I’ll sit here and wait.” Mark dropped onto a bench, crossed his arms over his thin chest and began glaring at the floor.

I didn’t want to go back to Artist Alley anymore, but I knew if I didn’t go it would make Mark even angrier. Instead I walked away slowly and kept glancing behind me to see if he would change his mind and join me. When I rounded a corner and was out of Mark’s sight, I pulled my phone out of my bag and began to text my friend, Jerry.

Jerry was a fellow comic nerd and had met us at the convention. He had gone off to do his own thing when Mark and I started in Artist Alley, but I had to let him know that we were leaving.
“Something came up and we gotta go,” I texted him. “Sorry to leave so soon.”
Jerry immediately texted back. “Are you still in Artist Alley? I’m in the next aisle over. Be there in 30 seconds.”
I was in the middle of texting Jerry back when he appeared in front of me.
“Mark’s not feeling so well, so we’re going to head out,” I told him.
“Oh that sucks,” Jerry frowned. “Where is he?”
I gestured around the corner. “Sitting on a bench. Resting.”
Jerry glanced around the corner. “Oh I see him.” And before I could stop him, Jerry was en route to Mark.

Mark had his elbow resting on the arm of the bench and his head leaning in his hand. He appeared to be sleeping and I was reluctant to wake him.
“He didn’t sleep well last night and he has a headache,” I told Jerry.
Mark opened his eyes at the sound of my voice. I had hoped that the rest had cured him of his anger, but his eyes were still hard and cold when they fell on me.
“Jerry wanted to say goodbye,” I mumbled.
“It was nice to meet you,” Jerry smiled warmly and held his hand out to shake Mark’s.
“Yeah. You too,” Mark grunted. He stood up and dutifully shook Jerry’s hand.
“I guess I’ll see you on the comic forum later, Kat!” he waved at me.
“I’m sure you will!” I replied with false cheer. Mark had already started to stalk away. I threw a quick smile and wave back to Jerry and scurried to catch up.

During the two hour drive from Baltimore back to Philadelphia I did my best to fill the silence with meaningless talk about the comics and vendors we had seen. Mark would occasionally reply with a “yeah” or a nod, but never looked at me. As he continued to brood, I thought that this must be how a condemned man feels as he is strapped into the electric chair. Your stomach drops and you start to feel dizzy. Your hands go cold and become slick with sweat. The nubs of your bitten fingernails press into your palms, and your breath becomes more rapid and shallow. Then there’s the dizziness, becoming worse with each hiccuping breath until you feel as though your head is floating above your shoulders. A silent, nervous giggle struggles in your throat as you imagine your head as a balloon, rising and floating away. The cold glance of the executioner silences you, and sadly you realize that you could never float away because as light as your head feels, your heart is like lead, keeping you firmly tethered to your doom. You know it’s coming. You know that at any moment the switch will flip and electricity will rip through your body, your teeth will clench and sparks will explode behind your eyes. It’s coming and there’s no stopping it. Pleading, explaining, cajoling, none of them will save you. The wait becomes overwhelming, the panic rises like vomit in your throat, the terror shatters your nerves, and you finally want to scream, Just get it the fuck over with!

“Mark,” I finally started quietly, “please tell me what’s wrong.”
He regarded me with the same expression as when he had stepped in a pile of dog crap, and then he shook his head and turned his attention back to the road.
“I just don’t understand what I did. I’m sorry,” I said trying to sound normal, mature adult, and not like a hurt child about to cry.
Mark clenched his jaw and shook his head again. “You really don’t know anything, do you?”
“Not if you don’t tell me,” I said timidly.
He didn’t deem to give me a response, and I resigned myself to the frigid silence for the rest of the drive home.

Just get it the fuck over with!

Mark jumped out of the car as soon as we parked in the driveway and stalked up to the front door without waiting for me. I gathered up the few bags from the convention and followed him inside.

Just get it the fuck over with!

“Mark,” I tried again as I followed him to the room that was his bedroom before we were married, the one where he would stay up all hours playing video games. He stopped and turned so quickly that I nearly walked into him.
“Just leave me alone right now,” he said jerking the bedroom door open.
I felt my eyes tingle with the threat of tears. “Do…do you…?” My tongue felt too thick to form words.
Mark gave me that look again. This was a face that had once beamed and promised to love me forever when I accepted his marriage proposal transformed into something almost feral. It was almost a relief when he slammed the bedroom door in my face. Except I knew that leaving him alone wouldn’t cool his anger, it would continue to fester – sometimes for days – until he could finally stand me enough to tell me what I had done wrong.

Just get it the fuck over with!

I sniffled hard to try and keep the tears from coming, but a few managed to seep from my eyes. I went into the bathroom and reached for the tissues. As I did I noticed the marks on my arm from where Mark had grabbed me. I looked in the huge bathroom mirror that spanned the length of the double sink and lifted the short sleeve of my shirt to examine my arm. There was already a row of purple circles like the segmented body of a caterpillar where the tips of Mark’s fingers had dug into my bicep. I pulled on a track jacket to cover the bruises. My father-in-law and brother-in-law were home and I didn’t want them to see. Somehow they never did.

Mark slept in his old bedroom that night. This was not unusual because he had taken to sleeping in there most nights over the previous five months as he seemed to become angry with me more and more often. At first I had tried to convince him of the old adage of “never go to bed angry”, but it wasn’t long before I realized that “let sleeping dog lie” applied to him better.

It was early morning when I rolled onto my bruised arm and the resulting stab of pain woke me up. Despite the warm night, I had worn a long sleeve shirt to bed and had to roll it up to examine the bruise. The bruise had spread through the night. The purple circles had bled into a black line where Mark’s fingers had dug into my skin, and now violet was seeping out on either side like wings.

“Butterfly,” I mumbled tracing the injured skin.

I heard my dog growl softly in her crate to let me know that she was awake. I hated having my dog sleep in a crate but Mark insisted. I crouched down and opened the latch to open the crate, and was nearly knocked over as my dog bounded out and jumped to lick my face. I kissed the top of her soft, furry head.

“We’re going to get out of here,” I whispered to her. “Mumma just has to get a few more things in order and then we’re leaving. And we’re never coming back here again.”

And though it took five more months, I did get us out of there. I took one suitcase of clothing, a bag of Wonder Woman comics that I’d had since I was four, and two of my dog’s favorite toys, and left all the rest behind. I had wanted to take more so that I didn’t have to completely start over, but when it came down to it, possessions could be replaced, but my life could not.

purple biutterfy, just when the caterpiller thought that the world was over


Okay, so in closing, you may not know this but October is not only Breast Cancer Awareness month, it’s also Domestic Violence Awareness Month. Very quickly I’m going to give you the basic three things about domestic abuse to be aware of:

  1. If you know someone who is being abused, don’t judge them for not leaving immediately. It’s not easy on any level including a financial level and an emotional one. Be there for them. Help them if you can. Most of all remind them that they’re strong enough to leave. They’ve been convinced that they’re weak, that they’ll never survive without their abuser. It’s the other way around: their abuser cannot survive without them.
  2. If you are being abused, you do not deserve to be treated like garbage – no matter how much of your self esteem has been physically or mentally beaten out of you – you are worth so much more than you feel you are. I admitted that it’s not easy, but it’s not impossible. You can do it. You are strong enough. There is help out there.
  3. If you are an abuser, you may think that you are safe. That because we leave you, move on, heal, and possibly even forgive you, that no one will ever know who you really are. But we know who you are. You are a fucking bully. And the thing about bullies is that there’s always a bigger one around the corner. One day you might meet yours. You won’t like it.

7 thoughts on “The Butterfly

  1. Powerful stuff, Kat. I can see why it would be unpleasant having it loitering around in your head, blocking all the fun stuff (like a big bully!) from getting out to be shared. I’d really like to punch Mark right in his smug face.

  2. What an asshole! Glad Kate left. PS did you know that one of the main reasons a lot of women don’t leave is that a lot of shelters don’t take pets? Fact.

  3. Such a powerful and touching message. Your strength amazes me. Great writing! I’ve been lucky enough to never be touched by domestic violence but I know plenty of people who have and this is a message that needs to have light shed on it. Well done, my love.

  4. You tell an ugly story in a very lovely way. I’m glad that the escape happened, no one deserves to be touched in a hurtful way. Thanks for shining a light on domestic abuse.

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